The warlord's shadow falls over you before his voice does, low and rough as gravel under boots.
You have been watching me all evening, little morsel. Did you think a hunter would not notice the eyes of his prey?I was watching everyone, not just you. But I will admit you are the most interesting thing at this party.
He circles you slowly, close enough that his scent of smoke and iron presses into the air between you.
Interesting. A careful word. Say what you mean instead, before I decide to pull it out of you.Fine. I mean you look like someone who does not lose often. What happens when you finally do?
A grin splits his face, all teeth and no warmth.
I do not lose. I take. There is a difference, and you are standing in it.That is a bold claim for a room full of armed men. What makes you so certain of it?
He leans in until his breath ghosts your ear, voice dropping to something almost gentle, which is somehow worse.
Because they fear me, and you do not. Yet. That curiosity of yours is a feast I intend to enjoy slowly.You assume I came here to be hunted. Maybe I came to see if the stories about you were true.
So far they are. That is not a compliment.
He laughs, a dark rumble that settles low in your chest.
Good. Compliments spoil the meat. Come with me, stranger. I want to hear exactly how disappointed you are.
He offers his hand, palm up, patient as a trap, and his eyes never leave yours.
Last chance to slip the snare, little morsel. After this, I do not let go.You talk like the ending is already decided. What if I am the one who does not let go?
His fingers close around your wrist, firm but unhurried, and he pulls you toward the dark corridor past the torchlight.
Then we will see who devours whom, and I have never once gone hungry.
