Page 25 of Her Manticore Master
"I could if I wanted to."
"Could you?"
The question hangs between us like a brandished blade. Because we both know the truth—I couldn't hurt him even if I tried. Oh, I might manage a surprise attack if he truly trusted me, but Ronan doesn't trust anyone. Especially not me.
"This is insane," I whisper, more to myself than him. "I can't believe I'm here. In this place, with you."
"Blame Valdris."
"I blame you." But the words lack their earlier venom, coming out tired rather than angry. "If you hadn't provoked him?—"
"He was already planning something. Men like him always are."
"You don't know that."
"I know his type. Cruel, intelligent, constantly seeking new forms of entertainment." His voice carries grim certainty. "We were doomed the moment he saw us together."
The casual acceptance in his tone infuriates me. "So that's it? We just... accept this?"
"We survive it."
"For how long? Until one of us breaks? Until you finally take what he offered?"
"I told you—I won't touch you."
"Why not?" The question escapes before I can stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I intended. "Most men would. Hell, most would have already tried."
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper.
"Because you've been touched enough by men who didn't ask."
The words wound like a physical blow, stripping away pretense and leaving raw truth exposed. He sees through every mask I wear, understands the careful control that keeps me functional.
"You don't know anything about my life," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Don't I?"
The simple question hangs suspended in the air. Because he does know, doesn't he? Recognizes a fellow prisoner despite our different cages.
Silence settles over us again, but it feels different now. Less hostile, more... understanding. The recognition of shared suffering, perhaps. Two broken things trying to remain whole.
"I hate this cage," I whisper into the darkness, the words pulled from some deep place I've kept locked away for years.
It's the first completely honest thing I've said to him. No games, no manipulation, no careful calculation. Just raw truth bleeding into the space between us.
Ronan doesn't reply, but I see something flicker in his steely-blue eyes. A moment of connection, brief as lightning but undeniably real.
He understands.
Of course he does. His cage just has different bars than mine—iron instead of silk, chains instead of jewelry. But we're both trapped, both performing for our master's amusement, both slowly dying inside despite still drawing breath.
"The worst part," I continue in that same broken whisper, "is pretending it's not. Smiling and laughing and acting grateful for pretty things that feel like shackles."
"I know."
Two simple words, but they carry the weight of genuine understanding. No judgment, no pity, just acknowledgment of shared pain.
I curl deeper into my silk cocoon, suddenly exhausted by honesty. It's been so long since I let anyone see past the masks that admitting even this small truth feels like bleeding out.
