Page 60 of Her Manticore Master
“Again,” I command later that day. We’re sparring, my movements controlled, giving her openings to see if she’s learned anything at all. For the most part, she’s reactive, her blocks clumsy, her counters too slow. But she’s watching, learning. I can see the intelligence in her eyes, the way she processes every move.
I feint high, then sweep low. She anticipates it, blocking with her shin and pivoting. Her fist connects with my ribs—a perfect strike. I stop, surprised. My approval must show, for a triumphant smirk spreads across her face before her mask slams back down.
“That was lucky,” I growl, rubbing the spot she hit.
“Luck had nothing to do with it, you predictable beast,” she retorts, her eyes bright with a satisfaction that is both irritating and strangely captivating. “You do that same stupid move every time.”
Her confidence, her sheer audacity, should infuriate me. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile. She’s not just enduring the training; she’s engaging with it, thinking like a fighter. The realization settles in my gut, heavy and significant.
“You’re no longer completely useless,” I admit, the words feeling like a concession of defeat.
Her smirk widens, and it’s a thing of breathtaking beauty. “High praise, beast.”
The cell's atmosphere changes, charged with a new, dangerous dynamic beyond captor/captive or teacher/student. Her minor success makes her cocky, a flaw I'll crush. Training, already brutal, becomes merciless, a relentless assault on her body and will.
“You think that was good enough?” I snarl, shoving her back after she lands another lucky shot. “The arena won’t be so forgiving.”
“I’m trying,” she gasps, scrambling to her feet.
“Trying isn’t enough! Faster!” I put her through endless drills—punches, blocks, footwork—until her movements become sloppy with exhaustion. “Again!”
“I can’t,” she whimpers, her arms trembling as she tries to hold her guard up.
“You can’t?” I get in her face, my voice a low, menacing growl. “Then die. Lie down and die right now, because that’s what will happen out there. Is that what you want?”
“No,” she sobs, a sound of pure frustration.
“Then get up and fight!”
She pushes through another set of drills, her movements fueled by sheer, stubborn will. But I see the moment her body gives out. Her legs tremble, her arms drop, and she collapses to her knees, then onto her side on the cold stone, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.
I stand over her, my own breathing harsh in the sudden silence. “I told you you were weak.”
She glares up at me from the floor, her green eyes blazing with a fire that exhaustion hasn't extinguished. “I… got… up… every… time,” she rasps, each word a struggle.
I look at her, bruised yet defiant. Her spirit, though her body fails, still fights. My respect deepens into admiration. The day's training ends; her courage unsettled me. I offer my hand, a silent truce to her inner war.
She takes my hand; I pull her up, and she collapses against my chest. The world stops. Her fragile weight, burning skin, and frantic heartbeat overwhelm me. Her scent, earthy and potent, fills my head.
I’m captivated by the pulse at her throat, the sweat on her neck disappearing into her tunic. Her labored breaths, parted lips, ignite a raw hunger in me—a fierce, terrifying desire not just for her body, but her spirit. I want to consume her fire, own her defiance, and claim every broken, beautiful part of her.
“Corrina,” I say roughly, more roughly than I intend.
Her wide, wary eyes met mine, a dangerous current arcing between us. Though I should push her away, my hand cupped her face, thumb stroking her bruised cheekbone. The desire to kiss her was an agonizing torture.
“Get some rest,” I manage to growl, stepping back abruptly, the loss of her warmth leaving me instantly cold.
She nodded, too tired to speak, and stumbled toward the cot. I turned my back, fighting the primal urge to claim her. The beast in me yearned to mark her as mine, and I feared I wasn't strong enough to resist.
26
CORRINA
Sweat and stone fill the cell, our training session's aftermath. My body aches from Ronan's brutal lessons, but I'm not broken. I pace in torn silks while he, chest heaving, stands by the bars, eyes burning with fury and hunger. I pushed him too far today, mocking his control, daring him to snap. A storm is brewing.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension.
“Like what?” he growls, stepping closer, his presence filling the cell like a caged beast.
