Page 55 of Her Manticore Master
"I don't want mercy."
"You'd have to follow my orders without question."
"I can do that."
"Can you? Because five minutes ago you were ready to murder another woman for talking to me."
Heat flares in her cheeks, but her voice remains steady. "That was different."
"How?"
"She was trying to take something that's mine."
The possessive admission hangs between us like a drawn blade. Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? Not just freedom or agency, but the need to fight for something—someone—that matters.
"I'm not yours, Corrina."
"Aren't you?"
The quiet question carries more weight than any declaration. Because looking into her eyes, seeing the fierce protectiveness there, I'm not entirely sure she's wrong.
"This is a terrible idea," I tell her.
"But you'll do it?"
I should say no. Should find her a safe corner to hide in while the real fighters handle the melee. Should protect her from herself and the violent world that will chew her up and spit out pieces.
Instead, I hear myself saying: "But I could make you one."
Her smile is bright as sunlight, sharp as steel.
"When do we start?"
22
CORRINA
His laughter is a slap, his dismissal a fresh wound on top of a hundred older scars. He turns his broad back on me and stalks toward the shadowy corner of the holding area that serves as our cell, leaving me standing alone in a sea of curious gladiators. The whispers and knowing glances of the other fighters feel like insects crawling on my skin. Humiliation burns through me, hot and acidic.
I take a half-step after him, my hand already tightening on the hilt of Zephyr’s dagger, ready to wound him with words since I can’t use steel. But the fight drains out of me as quickly as it came, leaving behind a familiar, aching emptiness. He’s right. I’m not a warrior. I’m a decoration, and my one act of violence was born of desperation, not skill.
Still, I follow him, my silk slippers silent on the stone floor. My pride wars with a deeper desperation, a need to make him see past the silk and the scorn. He doesn’t look up as I approach, his attention fixed on sharpening a piece of loose stone against the wall, the rhythmicscrape-scrape-scrapefilling the tense silence between us. It’s a mindless, repetitive task, one designed to shut out the world. To shutmeout.
“That was a cruel thing to do,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the noise of the holding pen.
The scraping continues, unabated. “What was?”
“Laughing at me. Dismissing me in front of everyone like I’m a child asking for a sweet.”
“You are a child,” he says without turning. “Playing at games you don’t understand.”
“I understand that my life is on the line, same as yours.”
“No,” he grunts, the stone finding a new edge. “Not the same. You die, Valdris loses a pretty toy. I die, I lose the only chance my brothers have.”
The casual dismissal stings more than any physical blow. He sees my life as trivial, my fears as insignificant. The familiar rage begins to build again, but this time it’s different. It’s colored by a profound sadness, a weariness that goes bone-deep. I’m tired of fighting this way—with words and glares and carefully constructed walls.
“I’m tired of it,” I say, the admission so quiet I’m not sure he’s heard.
