Page 17 of Her Manticore Master
"Of course. Look at you—chained like a pet, performing tricks for treats." She gestures dismissively at my bonds. "How the mighty have fallen."
"Fallen?" I lean forward as far as the chains allow, bringing us almost face to face. "From what great height, exactly?"
"From whatever delusion of grandeur you harbored before reality educated you."
The nobles murmur excitedly at our verbal sparring, but I barely hear them. All my attention focuses on the woman before me—beautiful, sharp-tongued, and radiating the kind of controlled fury that calls to something dark in my soul.
"And what reality is that?" I ask softly.
"That you're property now. A thing to be bought and sold and used for entertainment." Her smile is cruel as winter. "Just like the rest of us."
The last words slip out before she can stop them, revealing more than intended. I see the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes before she masks it.
"Ah," I murmur. "But there's the difference between us, pet. I remember what freedom tastes like."
Her face goes pale, then flushes with genuine anger. "How dare you?—"
"Call you pet? But that's what you are, isn't it? Valdris's favorite ornament, polished and displayed for admiration."
"I am not?—"
"What? His property? His plaything?" I laugh, the sound harsh in the perfumed air. "At least I'm honest about my chains."
She steps closer, close enough that I catch her scent—jasmine and rage and something deeper that makes my heart rate quicken despite my anger.
"You know nothing about me," she hisses.
"I know enough. You've traded your soul for silk sheets and safety."
"And you've traded your life for pride. Tell me, warrior, which of us is the fool?"
Our loud exchange drew the attention of the nobles in the great hall, who eagerly watched. However, my focus remained solely on the woman, captivated by her barely controlled emotions, fiery green eyes, and the elegant line of her throat above the sapphire collar.
"You think pride is foolishness?" I ask quietly, my voice pitched for her ears alone.
"I think pride is a luxury that gets people killed."
"And what about dignity? Honor? The right to choose your own death?"
"Pretty words that mean nothing when you're rotting in the ground."
"Better the ground than your knees."
She draws back as if I'd slapped her, hand rising instinctively toward her throat. For a moment, her mask slips completely, and I see raw pain in her eyes.
"You bastard," she whispers.
"Truth often is."
"Truth?" Her laugh is as bitter as ashes. "What would you know about truth? You're nothing but violence and ego wrapped in righteous fury."
"And you're nothing but fear dressed up in silk and jewels."
"I am not afraid?—"
"Aren't you?" I lean forward again, chains singing with tension. "When was the last time you made a choice that wasn't dictated by survival? When did you last say 'no' to something that mattered?"
"When did you last say 'yes' to something that mattered?" she shoots back.
