Page 95 of Warlord's Plaything

Not the soft flicker of firelight against the obsidian walls.

Not the lingering heat where he had pinned me, ruined me, left his fucking claim on me.

Not even the suffocating press of my own fucking thoughts.

I should have left.

I should have killed him the first time he touched me.

Instead—I let him crawl inside me, wrap himself around my gut like a sickness.

And now I can’t tell what burns more—my hatred or my fucking longing

The door slams open.

A half-dozen soldiers storm into the room, their boots heavy against the polished black floors.

Steel gleams in the torchlight.

I barely register the snap of movement before hands seize me, wrenching me forward.

I snarl, thrashing, instincts kicking in before my mind can process what’s happening.

"Get your fucking hands off me!"

The soldier behind me yanks hard, nearly dislocating my shoulder.

Another grabs my wrist, snapping cold metal around it.

"By order of the High Council, you are under arrest."

The words crack like a whip.

I freeze.

"What?"

The soldier grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him, his smirk twisting with mocking amusement.

"Lord Xyron has been taken into custody for the murder of his father."

The world lurches.

My lungs seize.

The air vanishes.

"Liar."

I don’t recognize my own voice.

It’s not rage. Not denial.

It’s a whisper of something worse.

Something close to fear.

The soldier sneers.

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