Page 59 of Warlord's Plaything

I force my breath steady, keeping my face blank as I slowly turn my head toward him. Xyron is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes burning like embers in the dim light. He looks too at ease. Too in control.

"Was I supposed to stay unconscious?"I bite out, pushing up onto my elbows.

The sheets slide down my bare skin. His gaze flicks downward—just for a second. But I see it. Feel it. Like a pulse of heat between us. Like a match held too close to dry kindling. I clutch the sheets tighter.

His mouth curves."Shy now, little warrior?"

The way he says it—mocking, taunting—makes my blood boil.

"You think you know me, warlord?"I sneer.

"I know exactly what you are."

His voice is so fucking sure. Like he sees something in me that even I don’t.

And that pisses me off more than anything.

I don’t think.

I just lunge.

A blur of movement, silk sheets forgotten, my hands aiming for his throat.

He catches me.

Like he was waiting.

Like he knew I’d fucking try.

The impact slams me against the wall.

His body—**solid, unrelenting—**pins me there before I can twist away.

My pulse spikes, sharp and violent.

Not in fear.

Never fucking fear.

But in something worse.

Something I refuse to name.

His breath is hot against my jaw.

"That was cute,"he murmurs, voice a mockery of amusement."Try again?"

I snarl, twisting, trying to break free, but his grip tightens.

His fingers are bruising against my wrists.

His legs cage mine in place.

And fuck—I hate this.

Hate how fucking strong he is.

Hate how my body reacts to it.

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