Page 88 of Warlord's Plaything

I barely register the shift before my back is against the wall, his body caging mine in.

The breath punches from my lungs, and I curse myself for letting him do this again.

But I don’t push him away.

And that’s the real problem.

"You should be afraid of me."

His voice is a whisper of heat and steel against my throat.

"I’m not."

He doesn’t speak immediately.

Instead, his fingers skim down my jaw, tracing slow, deliberate paths like he’s committing me to memory.

His touch is fire and control and something else, something worse.

Something I want.

"You should be,"he murmurs.

I swallow hard. Too hard.

"Why?"

His eyes burn into me.

"There’s no stopping now.”

The words land heavy, final.

Like a dagger pressed against my skin.

Like a warning.

Like a surrender.

I don’t want him to stop.

His breath ghosts over my lips, hot and uneven.

His fingers tighten around my wrists, holding me there, holding himself together.

Like he’s at war with himself.

Like he’s fighting the same fucking battle I am.

Like he wants me to be the one to break first.

I can’t.

I won’t.

This is the only war I know how to win.

"Then don’t."

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