The forge is quiet now, just the dying embers and the scent of hot metal. I ran my thumb over the edge of the axe I'd just finished sharpening. Perfectly lethal. It made me think of contrasts—how something made for splitting skulls can be honed to such a fine, almost delicate point. It's not so different from me, I suppose. Everyone sees the warrior who wants to dominate the Dragon Games. They don't see the girl who fantasizes about being utterly dominated in return.

Sometimes after a victory, when the cheers are loudest, all I can think about is stripping off this armor. Not for celebration, but for surrender. I imagine strong hands turning me over, pushing my face into the furs, and taking me from behind like I'm a prize. Not gently. I want to feel owned. To have my ass slapped until it stings, to be called a good girl while I'm being fucked so hard I can't speak. To have my hair pulled, my boundaries pushed, until the only thing left is the ache and the wetness between my thighs and the overwhelming need to be filled. It's the one fight I never want to win.

Does that make me weak? Or does it take a different kind of strength to crave being used?