Page 70 of Warlord's Plaything

For what?

For me to crack?

For me to fall apart in his hands?

Fuck him.

"What do you want?"My voice is rough, jagged at the edges.

His smirk is slow, deliberate."You."

My stomach twists, heat flashing through my spine like a live wire.

I hate how easy it is for him.

How he can say one fucking word and make something inside me turn against itself.

"You can have my body, warlord."I step toward him, refusing to show hesitation."But you will never have me."

He chuckles, the sound low, dark, and fucking knowing."You say that, but your body begs to differ."

I strike before he can say another word.

Faster than I mean to. Faster than I should be able to. He blocks my attack, but his expression flickers, a shadow of surprise tightening his features.

He felt it, I know he did.

"What was that?"he murmurs, his grip tightening around my wrist.

My breath hitches.

"Nothing."

Liar.

His free hand moves, tracing along my jaw, his touch lighter than it should be."You’re changing, little warrior."

I glare at him, even as my pulse betrays me, hammering like a war drum."You don’t know shit about me."

"No?"His fingers curl beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him."Then why do I feel it?"

I don’t know what he means.

I don’t want to.

If he can feel it—**this restless, burning thing inside me—**then I can’t pretend anymore.

I can’t pretend it’s just rage.

Just grief.

Just what he’s done to me.

It’s something else.

Something worse.

"You’re imagining things, warlord."

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