Page 35 of Her Manticore Master
Dawn brings the familiar routine—guards, separation, another day of watching him risk his life for entertainment. But today feels different. Charged. Every time our eyes meet, I remember the dream-heat of his touch.
"You look tired," Valdris observes over breakfast, pale eyes studying my face with an uncomfortable intensity. "Not sleeping well?"
"The accommodations are adequate."
"Are they? I do hope our manticore isn't proving... troublesome."
The loaded question makes my cheeks burn, but I keep my expression neutral. "He keeps to himself."
"How disappointing. I had hoped for more... interaction by now."
"Patience, Master. These things take time."
"Indeed they do. Though I confess, watching him fight with such passion suggests he has considerable energy to spare."
The implication in his words makes my skin crawl, but I take another bite of honeyed fruit. "Men express frustration in different ways."
"Some do, yes. Others find more... intimate outlets."
By the time I'm escorted to the arena, my nerves are strung tight as bowstrings. Today's opponent is a massive orc with fists like hammers, and I watch through my fingers as Ronan barely dodges each crushing blow.
When it's over—when he stands victorious over the beast's corpse—our eyes meet across the blood-soaked sand. Something electric passes between us, a recognition that really has nothing to do with hatred but everything to do with the dream that still burns in my memory.
I look away first, cheeks flaming.
"You fought sloppily today," I inform him that evening as I clean a particularly nasty cut along his forearm.
"Did I?"
"The orc nearly crushed your skull. Twice."
"But it didn't."
"Luck won't save you forever."
"Neither will caution."
His voice carries an edge I haven't heard before—something darker, more dangerous. When I look up from my work, those steel-blue eyes are studying my face.
"Something troubling you?" I ask with forced lightness.
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You've been different today. Distracted."
Heat blooms on my face despite my best efforts. "I'm always distracted when tending to someone stupid enough to let an orc use him as a punching bag."
"Is that what this is about? My fighting?"
"What else would it be about?"
"You tell me, Corrina."
The way he says my name—low and rough—sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. Just like in the dream.
"There's nothing to tell."
