Page 4 of Her Manticore Master
The beast that emerges from the opposite gate makes several women gasp. Black as midnight with eyes like molten gold, it's nearly the size of a horse with claws that could shred steel.
The manticore doesn't even flinch.
"Fascinating," I murmur, loud enough for him to hear if his senses are as sharp as legend claims. "I wonder how long this one will last."
Those steel eyes find mine across the arena, and something charged passes between us. I smile slowly, letting him see my amusement at his situation.
His expression hardens, jaw clenching with barely contained fury.
Perfect. I've gotten under his skin already.
The shadowcat pounces with liquid grace, but the manticore moves like lightning despite his bonds. He rolls aside, using the creature's momentum against it, and somehow manages to wrap his chains around its throat.
The crowd erupts as beast and warrior struggle in the sand, but I only have eyes for him. The way he fights—brutal, efficient, utterly without mercy. It's poetry written in violence.
"Magnificent," Valdris breathes. "He'll make me a fortune."
The shadowcat's neck snaps with an audible crack.
The manticore rises slowly, sand coating his sweat-slicked skin, and looks directly at me again. This time, I'm the one who feels exposed under that burning gaze.
I lift my wine goblet in a mocking salute. "Well done, beast," I call out. "Perhaps you'll survive the week after all."
His hands clench into fists, chains rattling.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
"Bring him to the preparation chambers," Valdris orders as healers tend to the manticore's minor wounds. "I want him presentable for tomorrow's matches."
"All of him?" I ask innocently. "He's rather... dirty."
Valdris chuckles, missing the undercurrent in my words. "Indeed. Have the slaves prepare a bath. We can't have our prize fighter looking like a common criminal."
As we descend from the viewing box, my mind races. Most fighters are kept in the underground cells between matches, but Valdris clearly has special plans for this one. The preparation chambers are luxurious by arena standards—still prison cells, but with actual beds and washing facilities.
"You seem unusually interested in this fighter," Zara observes as we walk the marble corridors.
"He's different," I admit. "Most break within days. This one..." I let the words hang.
"This one what?"
"This one might actually be dangerous."
We reach the preparation level as guards escort the manticore down the opposite corridor. Even chained and surrounded, he moves with predatory grace. His steel eyes sweep our group, lingering on me with undisguised hostility.
"Problem, warrior?" I ask sweetly.
He stops walking, forcing the guards to halt. "You enjoyed the show?"
His voice is a low rumble, roughened by the arena's dust. It sends an unexpected shiver through me.
"Immensely," I purr. "Though I expected more from someone who cost five thousand gold. The shadowcat barely scratched you."
"Next time, I'll ask them to bring something more challenging." His tone could cut glass. "Perhaps something with a sharper tongue."
The guards chuckle nervously, but I smile wider. "Oh, I do like this one. He has fire."
"Fire gets you killed in the arena," one guard—Marcus, I think—warns. "Better to learn submission quickly."
