Page 20 of Her Manticore Master
The great hall erupts in excited chatter as Valdris's guards move to collect us. I stand frozen in place, mind reeling from the casual cruelty of his decree.
Shared cells. Forced intimacy. My body offered as entertainment for his gladiator's use.
"Move," Guard Captain Thane orders, his scarred hands already reaching for my arm.
"Don't touch me." The words escape before I can stop them, sharp with desperation and rage.
"Not your choice anymore, pet." His grip tightens on my elbow. "Master's orders."
Around us, nobles watch with avid fascination, their faces flushed with wine and voyeuristic excitement. This is theater to them—a living drama staged for their amusement.
Lady Miriel fans herself rapidly. "How scandalous. How absolutely thrilling."
"Twenty gold says she breaks within a week," Lord Caelum wagers.
"Thirty says the manticore kills her first," another noble counters.
They're betting on my suffering, my potential death, as casually as they'd wager on dice games. The realization sends fresh fury through my veins.
"Enjoying the show?" I snarl at the nearest lord.
He actually blushes. "My dear, we're simply?—"
"Simply what? Watching a woman be fed to a beast for your entertainment?"
"Now, now," Valdris's voice cuts through my outburst like ice water. "Such dramatics are unnecessary. You're not being fed to anyone. Merely... relocated."
"To his cell. His bed."
"To wherever he chooses to put you, yes."
The casual dismissal of my agency, my humanity, breaks something inside me. I've endured years of careful degradation, subtle erosion of dignity disguised as luxury.
This is different. This is raw, honest cruelty without even the pretense of civility.
"I won't do it," I whisper.
"You will," Valdris replies with absolute certainty. "Because the alternative is so much worse."
His pale eyes promise horrors beyond imagination, punishments that would make sharing a cell seem like mercy.
"Take them away," he commands with a dismissive wave.
Shoved into a cramped, ten-foot stone cell, I’m left in the reeking, moldy dungeon. This small space, with a cot and a bucket, is where gladiators await death. Now, it's my nightly home.
"Home sweet home," Korven laughs, slamming the door behind me.
Moments later, they bring Ronan. Even in chains, he moves like a predator, all controlled violence and barely leashed fury. They shove him through the cell door with unnecessary force.
The lock clicks with horrible finality.
We stand on opposite sides of the cramped space, separated by perhaps eight feet of straw-covered stone. In the flickering torchlight filtering through the barred window, his steel-blue eyes burn with emotions too complex to read.
Rage, yes. But also something else—a grim acceptance that mirrors my own.
"Well," I say finally, my voice echoing off damp walls. "This is cozy."
He doesn't reply, just studies me with that unsettling intensity. Taking inventory, perhaps. Deciding what to do with his unwilling cellmate.
