Page 56 of Warlord's Plaything

He is the only one I have ever bowed to.

My father.

My patriarch.

"Sit, my son."

Xiva’s voice is smooth as aged steel, deep and commanding. It carries through the room like a blade in velvet.

I obey.

Because you don’t argue with a warlord like Xiva.

Because you don’t deny a father when he speaks to his heir.

Xiva studies me from across the heavy onyx table, his eyes sharp as a predator’s. He lifts his goblet, the deep red wine swirling like blood against the black crystal.

"Your report,"he orders, as if he doesn’t already know.

As if he hasn’t been three steps ahead of me this whole time.

"The rebellion is broken,"I say, voice even. Measured.

Xiva’s lips twitch.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite approval.

But something close.

"And the girl?"he asks, eyes gleaming as he takes a slow sip.

I hesitate.

And Xiva notices.

He notices everything.

"Ah,"he exhales, leaning back, a knowing hum in his throat."So it’s like that."

I don’t move.

Don’t react.

But he knows.

Of course, he fucking knows.

Because Xiva Herox has ruled for too long, has played too many games, has seen too many men fall because of their desires. He knows what happens when power tangles with hunger.

"Do you believe you control her?"he asks smoothly, watching me over the rim of his goblet.

I meet his gaze."She is mine."

Then—a quiet laugh.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

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