Page 7 of Warlord's Plaything

No armor.

No protection.

Just bare skin and silk and the humiliating knowledge that I’ve been put in something meant to make me look... appealing.

My fists clench at my sides.

If they think this will make me bend to him, they don’t know what the hell they’ve brought into this cage.

They leave me waiting.

Sitting on a bed too soft, surrounded by luxury too cruel, draped in a dress meant for something owned, something claimed.

I hate this more than the pits.

More than the sand and the blood and the taste of death on my tongue.

I can’t fight. Controlled. Powerless.

Here, I am helpless.

And that’s the worst fucking feeling in the world.

I don’t know how long I sit there before the door opens.

Before Ifeelhim enter.

Xyron moves through the space like he owns it.

This isn’t just a room. It’s his lair. His fucking throne, wrapped in silk and scented oils, dressed in elegance to hide the beast that truly lurks here.

His eyes flick over me, taking in the sight of me bathed, dressed, waiting.

And fuck him, but he looks...satisfied.

Not surprised.

Like heexpectedme to be here, ready for whatever game he wants to play.

I don’t stand.

Don’t kneel.

Just watch him with barely restrained fury, curling my nails into my palms, feeling the sharp burn of crescent moons digging into my flesh.

"You clean up well," he says, voice smooth as midnight, rich with something that makes my skin prickle.

I roll my shoulders. "If you brought me here to dress me up like a doll, I think I’d rather take my chances bleeding out in the sand."

His lips twitch.

"Do you really think I went through all that trouble just to admire you?"

I say nothing. What does he really want from me?

And that’s the problem.

Xyron is too careful. Too fucking measured. He doesn’t beat his slaves. Doesn’t bark orders. Doesn’t play with his food the way the others do.

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