Page 52 of Warlord's Plaything

Not the kind that licked at my skin when I swung my torch and watched the flames consume everything.

No—this heat is different. Closer. Heavier. More dangerous.

It’s him.

Xyron.

The smell of him—dark spices and battle-worn steel— seeps into my senses before my vision clears.

Before I register the silk beneath my fingers.

Before I realize—I’m not in the pits anymore.

I’m in his bed.

I bolt upright.

The moment I move, I feel every ache, every bruise, every reminder of the fight we lost.

The rebellion crumbled under his hands.

And now—so have I.

I don’t recognize the room, but I know it belongs to him.

Everything is too rich, too decadent, too suffocatingly expensive.

Deep black stone walls. Gilded torches casting gold across silk sheets.

And the smell of him, thick in the surroundings.

Like he owns every inch of this place.

Like he owns me.

"I was wondering when you’d wake up."

His voice is a blade against my spine.

I whip toward the sound, heart hammering.

Xyron leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like molten fire in the dim torchlight.

Too casual.

Too composed.

Like he hasn’t just ruined everything I fought for.

Like he hasn’t stolen me from the battlefield and dragged me here, into his domain.

Like he isn’t waiting for me to give up the fight. Break.

"Go to hell."

The words slip out like a snarl.

He smiles. Slow. Amused. Infuriating.

---