Page 65 of Her Manticore Master
Her pussy clenches around me, her moans softer now, a desperate edge to them as we chase something beyond thephysical, something that makes the cell, the arena, the chains fade away.
As we lie together after, tangled in the straw, her head on my chest, I hear a low chuckle from the corridor. “Getting cozy, beast?” It’s Gavric, the orc guard, his tusks glinting as he peers through the bars. “Didn’t think you’d fall for a harem pet.”
“Walk away, Gavric,” I growl, my arm tightening around Corrina. “Or I’ll carve those tusks into toothpicks.”
He laughs, banging his club against the bars before moving on. Corrina shifts, her voice soft against my skin. “He’s not wrong, you know. This is dangerous.”
“I know,” I say, pressing a kiss to her hair. “But you’re worth it.”
She doesn’t reply, but her fingers trace the scars on my chest, and for now, that’s enough.
30
CORRINA
The night before the melee, a tense silence replaces the usual boisterous energy in the holding pen. Gladiators, grim-faced, prepare for the blood-soaked sand. I sit, my own terror a cold, sharp fear that hones my senses. Every bruise and ache is a reminder of survival's cost.
“Are you ready?” Ronan’s voice is a low rumble beside me. He isn’t looking at me, his attention fixed on sighting down the edge of his own massive blade.
“No,” I answer honestly, my voice barely a whisper. “Is anyone ever ready to die?”
He finally turns his head, his steel-blue eyes meeting mine. The casual cruelty he once directed at me is gone, replaced by a grim, shared understanding. “The goal isn’t to be ready to die, Corrina. It’s to be ready to kill.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he presses, his gaze intense. “Because there will be a moment out there when you hesitate. When the person you were screams at you to stop. You have to be strong enough to ignore her.”
“I will be,” I say, and the words are a vow. The pampered girl he first met, the one who flinched at raised voices, is a ghost. A phantom from another life. Ronan broke me, just as I asked. But he didn’t shatter me. In the breaking, he forged me into something new. Something sharper. Something that might just survive the dawn.
I hold Zephyr's dagger, the one I used to kill him. Ronan sharpened the blade and re-wrapped the hilt for a better grip, returning it this morning as a tool and responsibility.
“A warrior’s blade is her life,” he had said, his voice rough as he pressed it into my hand. “You drop it, you die. You lose it, you die. You hesitate to use it, you die. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I had whispered, the weight of the steel a cold, solid reality in my palm.
In the quiet holding pen, I trace the cool, smooth dagger. It has tasted blood, and tomorrow it will taste more. This thought, once repulsive, now fills me with grim purpose. This is my life.
I slowly stand and move to our gear. Ronan watches me. I slide the dagger into its hidden sheath on my thigh, concealed by my leather tunic. The cold steel grounds me, a constant reminder of my choice. I am no longer an object; I am a weapon, and I will not hesitate.
“Good,” Ronan says, his voice a quiet approval that means more to me than any jewel Valdris ever gave me. “Keep it hidden until you need it. Surprise is your only real advantage.”
I nod, my hand resting for a moment on the hilt through the leather. “I remember.”
I brace for what's next, splashing cold water on my face from a nearby bucket. My reflection stares back, a stranger.
My face, though mine, is harder, leaner, the soft curves replaced by sharp cheekbones. Exhaustion darkens my eyes, yet they hold a new, cold determination, devoid of formerarrogance. My hair, no longer silken waves, is in tight, practical braids, as Ronan taught me, to keep it from an enemy's grasp.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the stranger in the water.
Transformed from a pampered pet to a hardened survivor, she is now a woman of scuffed leather, faded bruises, and a determined, watchful silence. This new self, forged by Ronan's cruelty and the constant threat of death, is no longer a beauty or a prize, but a somber understanding of what it cost to create her.
“I am the one who survives,” I say to my reflection, and the words are a quiet, unshakeable truth. I am a warrior.
My gaze fell upon Ronan. He was no longer sharpening his blade, but simply holding it, his eyes closed in quiet meditation. He was the cause of my transformation, my teacher, tormentor, and partner—my reason.
A silent vowtook root in my heart. I would not just fight to survive; I would fightfor him. I would not be his weakness, but the blade at his back, the unexpected threat. I would prove to him, to Valdris, to the world, and most importantly, to myself, that I was his equal.
“I will fight for you, Ronan Vastan,” I whisper to his unhearing ears. “I will fight for us.”
