Page 41 of Warlord's Plaything

Fuck.

I should let her go but I tilt her chin higher. Her pulse hammers beneath my fingers. A slow, steady drumbeat. And fuck me, but I can’t decide if I want to listen to it or tear it apart.

"I don’t need to watch you burn."My voice is a whisper against her skin."You’re already on fire."

Her breath stutters.

Her lips part.

And for a second—just a fucking second—She gazes at me like she’s falling into something neither of us are ready to name.

Then she moves. Fast.

Too fucking fast.

She twists, yanking her wrists free, shoving me back before I can stop her. The iron clangs to the floor. I step forward, heat lacing through my veins, but she’s already there, palm flattening against my chest, stopping me.

"I don’t need your fucking warnings,"she breathes.

I exhale sharply.

"No,"I murmur."You need a fucking leash."

Her smirk returns. Dark. Wicked.

"Too bad,"she murmurs."No one’s ever been able to keep one on me."

It’s a war.

And the next time she pushes I won’t stop myself from pulling her under.

15

HIRA

The pits are too quiet.

The usual din of metal clashing, voices snarling, the ever-present hum of barely contained violence—gone.

Instead, there’s only what we lost.

The air smells of blood.

Not the distant kind, not the familiar stench of the arena sands soaked with old violence.

No.

This is our blood.

Blood that was spilled for nothing.

For a war that hasn’t even started.

And it’s all my fucking fault.

Dagen stands near the edge of the training ring, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Sella crouches beside what’s left of the fallen.

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