Page 51 of Her Manticore Master
"Must you?" His laugh is like breaking glass. "I don't think you understand your position here, little bird. Without a strong protector, you'll be dead before the first round ends."
"I'll take my chances."
"Will you? Because from where I'm sitting, your chances look very poor indeed."
Zephyr moves closer, close enough that I can smell the musk of his scales, the metallic scent of old blood. His yellow eyes study my face with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey.
"Last chance, little bird. Accept my protection willingly, or?—"
"Or what?"
"Or I take what I want anyway. After all, who's going to stop me?"
His hand reaches out to touch my cheek, and something inside me snaps. Years of carefully controlled rage, of swallowed pride and forced submission, explode into violence.
Before conscious thought can intervene, I'm moving. My hand darts out to snatch the curved dagger from his belt, and in one fluid motion, I drive it between his ribs with all the force I can muster.
His eyes go wide with shock. "You... you actually..."
The blade slides between scales and flesh like it was meant to be there. Hot blood spills over my fingers as he staggers backward, hands clutching at the wound.
"I warned you," I say quietly.
He opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out. Dark, arterial blood that pools on the stone floor as he collapses.
The holding area falls silent. Every conversation stops, every eye turns to stare at the harem girl who just killed a champion gladiator with his own weapon.
Even I'm surprised by what I've done. My hands shake as I stare down at Zephyr's still form, at the blood spreading beneath his body like spilled wine.
I killed him.
Actually killed him.
The thought should horrify me. Should make me sick with guilt and fear.
Instead, I feel... liberated.
"Well," someone observes casually, "that was unexpected."
Slowly, conversations resume. As if a man bleeding out on the floor is nothing more than mild entertainment. Within moments, they've dismissed the incident entirely, returning to their negotiations and power plays.
I'm forgotten again, just another killer in a room full of killers.
With trembling hands, I pull the dagger from Zephyr's chest, wipe the blade clean on his armor, and tuck it into the belt of my silk dress. The weight of it against my hip feels strange but not unwelcome.
When I straighten, my eyes find Ronan across the room—and my blood turns to ice.
A female gladiator leans against the wall beside him, her body language clearly flirtatious. She's beautiful in a hard, dangerous way—olive skin marked with ritual scars, dark hair braided with steel rings, muscles that speak of countless victories.
Everything I'm not.
She says something that makes him laugh—actually laugh—and the sound pierces right through me. When did he ever laugh at anything I said?
"Impressive work, she-wolf," an orc comments, nodding at Zephyr's corpse. "Quick, clean, efficient."
"He shouldn't have touched me."
"No, he shouldn't have. Word of advice—next time, go for the throat. Quicker kill, less mess."
