Page 5 of Warlord's Plaything

No title. No "My Lord." No fuckingfear.

Something deep in my chest growls.

I reach out, curling a strand of her wild, tangled hair around my fingers. Blood clings to it, dark and thick.

"Tell me," I say, tilting my head. "Do you fight this hard because you love the taste of victory? Or because you’re too much of a stubborn bitch to know when to die?"

She doesn’t even blink.

"Go fuck yourself."

The laugh that rips from my throat is sharp, unexpected.

Gods.

She’s fun.

I crouch in front of her, close enough to watch her nostrils flare at the scent of me, close enough to see the sweat glistening at the hollow of her throat, the angry pulse in her neck.

Her body is coiled for a fight, like she’s waiting for me to strike.

She doesn’t understand.

I don’t want to break her.

I want to watch her burn.

"You fascinate me," I say honestly. "You shouldn’t, but you do."

She exhales sharply, like she can’t stand the words.

"Fuck you."

"Not yet," I murmur. "But maybe soon."

Her pupils dilate. Just a fraction.

My lips curl.

Interesting.

Very fucking interesting.

Her gaze sharpens. "What do you want from me?"

My fingers ghost along the bruises on her arm, lingering over the marks the handlers left.

I drag my knuckles over the iron collar at her throat.

I watch her shudder, just barely, just enough to see.

"I want to know what you are," I murmur, voice deep, dangerous. "No mere human should have survived that fight. No human moves like you. No human looks at me the way you do."

I see the flicker of something beneath the rage.

Something she doesn’t want me to see.

"Go to the darkest corner of the Abyss and burn."

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