Page 45 of Her Manticore Master
They chain us both—lighter bonds for her, heavier for me—and march us through stone corridors toward whatever fresh hell Valdris has devised. But as we walk, I catch Corrina's hand in mine for just a moment, squeezing gently.
Whatever comes, we'll face it together.
Even if it kills us both.
18
CORRINA
The arena gates grind open with mechanical precision, and suddenly we're thrust into blazing sunlight and the deafening roar of thousands of bloodthirsty spectators. Sand shifts beneath my silk slippers as guards shove us toward the center of the killing ground, chains clanking with each step.
I've watched countless fights from Valdris's viewing box, but being down here—surrounded by towering walls, feeling the weight of all those hungry eyes—is entirely different. The scale is overwhelming, designed to make fighters feel small and insignificant.
But I refuse to cower.
Around us, other gladiators emerge from various gates. Orcs with filed teeth and scarred hides. Dark elves moving with predatory grace. A massive minotaur whose horns gleam like polished bone. All of them killers, all of them desperate for freedom.
And all of them staring at me with various degrees of interest.
"Fresh meat," one orc rumbles, his yellow eyes lingering on my silk-clad form with obvious appreciation.
"Pretty little thing," a dark elf agrees, his voice carrying magical compulsion that makes my skin crawl. "Wonder what she's doing down here with the rest of us animals."
"Valdris's pet," another gladiator explains with a lewd grin. "Heard she's been sharing cells with the manticore."
The crude speculation makes my cheeks burn, but before I can respond, Ronan moves closer. Not obviously protective, but near enough that his presence becomes a warning.
His steel-blue eyes sweep the assembled fighters with cold promise, and I see the exact moment each one recognizes the threat he poses. The casual comments stop, replaced by wary respect.
"Problem?" he asks quietly, his voice carrying despite the crowd's noise.
"No problem," the orc mutters, but his gaze drops from mine to safer targets.
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest at his subtle protection. When did he start watching me like that? Like I'm something precious that needs guarding?
"Citizens of Vhoig!" The announcer's voice booms across the arena, magically amplified to reach every corner of the massive space. "Today we present a special exhibition!"
The crowd roars in response, but I'm only dimly aware of the sound. My attention is fixed on Ronan, on the way he positions himself so he can see every gladiator while keeping me partially shielded behind his broad frame.
A naga gladiator slithers closer, serpentine lower body gleaming with scales, and his forked tongue flicks out in appreciation. "Delicious," he hisses. "I wonder if she tastes as sweet as she looks."
The comment is barely audible over the crowd's noise, but Ronan hears it. His jaw clenches, hands curling into fists despite his chains, and something deadly flickers in his eyes.
"Careful," he says softly. "I'm feeling particularly violent today."
The naga laughs, but he moves away. They all do, reading the promise of death in Ronan's stance. Even chained, even outnumbered, he radiates the kind of controlled fury that smart predators avoid.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"Yes, I do."
The simple certainty in his voice steals my breath. Because this isn't about duty or obligation. This is about something deeper, more primal. The way he watches me now—protective, possessive, utterly focused—makes my pulse race in ways I'm not ready to examine.
When did everything change between us?
More importantly, when did I start caring that it had?
"Welcome, gladiators!" Valdris's voice cuts through my confused thoughts, drawing every eye to his ornate viewing box. He stands at the railing in flowing robes, pale hair catching sunlight like spun silver. "Welcome to what promises to be a most... enlightening afternoon."
