Page 92 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Our limbs tangle.

The table shudders beneath me.

We’re not fighting like before—this isn’t training, not a game.

It’s war.

Every movement is a battle. Every breath is a challenge.

And neither of us are willing to lose.

I land a hit. He lands one back.

I snarl. He laughs.

The bastard is enjoying this.

I’m weaker than him, but I’ll make it hurt. I don’t know how to kill a man, but I can be vicious.

Killing someone changed me from inside out.

I try to shove him off. He doesn’t let me.

He leans in, breath warm against my cheek. "Not bad, little siren."

The words scrape against something deep inside me.

His body is pressed too close, too solid, too much.

I try to move—he doesn’t let me.

His fingers curl around my wrist again, pinning it to the wood.

Our chests rise and fall in sync, breathing ragged, heated.

I should feel trapped.

I should feel afraid.

Instead—I feel alive.

His silver eyes flicker, roaming over my face, lingering too long on my lips.

He should end this.

But he doesn’t.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice low, taunting.

I stare at him.

The challenge is clear. If I tell him to stop, he will.

I can’t.

My pulse pounds against my skin, heat spreading through my limbs like wildfire.

His gaze darkens. His grip flexes—not cruel, not soft.

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