Page 8 of Warlord's Plaything

He watches.

He studies.

Like a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And I don’t knowwhy.

What does he even see in me? Fuck it.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, voice sharp, nails biting deeper into my palm. "You could’ve let them toss me back into the pits."

He moves closer.

The heat of him brushes against my skin, and I fucking hate it—that my body notices his proximity before my mind does, that the air between us goes taut, humming with something ugly and raw.

Something twisted.

"You interest me."

I snort. "Yeah? And what do you do to the things that interest you,my lord?"

He raises his head.

"Would you like to find out?"

There’s a threat in his voice.

A promise.

And my pulseskips.

I know what kind of male he is.

The kind who takes.

The kind who doesn’t fucking ask.

So when I lift my chin, meet his golden stare with a glare made of steel and fire, and whisper,"Try me, warlord,"

I’m half expecting him to snap.

For his control to shatter.

For him to grab me by the throat, shove me into the silk and the softness, and remind me who fucking owns this world.

But he doesn’t.

He just watches me.

Smirks.

And says, low and dark?—

"Soon."

Then he’s gone, leaving me in this damned cage, burning with hate, rage?—

—and something far more dangerous.

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