Page 6 of Warlord's Plaything

My smile widens.

"Darling," I say, brushing my thumb over her pulse point. "I already live there."

Her breath hitches—just slightly, just barely enough to notice. I pull away before she can school her expression, before she can hide the truth from me.

She’s hiding something.

And I plan to rip it from her, piece by fucking piece.

3

HIRA

The smell of him clings to my skin.

Something sharp. Spiced wine and steel, the bitter bite of magic curling in the air.

Even though he’s gone, the room stillfeelslike him. Still suffocates me with his fucking presence, like his gaze has been burned into the air itself. I sit there, spine straight, wrists still raw from the shackles, and try to pretend I don’t feel his touch lingering at my throat, at my pulse.

He touched me.

Not in anger. Not in punishment.

In curiosity.

That should terrify me more than anything else.

I should be afraid—terrified that a creature like him sees me as more than a slave, that his gaze lingers too long, that he speaks to me like I’m somethingworth figuring out.

If he’s curious, he won’t leave me alone.

And if he doesn’t leave me alone, he’ll find out the truth.

I should be in the slave pits.

Instead, I’mhere. Right where he left me. And I don’t know why.

A lavish chamber, too big, too rich, too fuckingwrong—filled with opulence I’ve never known, dark silks and polished steel, obsidian floors that catch the flickering light of enchanted sconces. The air is cooler here, perfumed, and I hate it.

The bath is steaming when the servants lead me toward it.

Ishouldfight.

I should spit and snarl and make them drag me in kicking—but that would be exactly what Xyron expects.

So I do the opposite.

I let them undress me.

Let them peel away the tattered rags of my gladiator’s armor, exposing the bruises, the cuts, the scars. Let them guide me into the heated, dark-water bath, the temperature a sharp contrast to my fevered skin.

I don’t flinch when their fingers work through my tangled hair, cleaning away blood and sand, stripping me of the last remnants of the arena. I don’t move when their hands trail over my back, my thighs, washing away filth like I’m a thing being polished for display.

I just sit there, staring at the flickering light above me, imagining all the ways I’d gut Xyron fucking Herox if I got the chance.

I don’t know how much time passes before they dress me.

The gown is dark, made of something thin and silky that clings indecently to my body.

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