Page 24 of Her Manticore Master
Tomorrow will bring fresh hells, new battles, more games designed for Valdris's amusement. But tonight, in this cell that's become our shared prison, we're just two broken people trying to survive.
And that, somehow, feels like the most dangerous thing of all.
10
CORRINA
The cell falls into uneasy quiet as the torch outside our window burns lower, casting ever-dimmer light through the iron bars. I remain curled in my corner, silk dress arranged around me like a barrier against the rough stone and the man who shares this nightmare.
He thinks I'm asleep.
Through lowered lashes, I watch him settle against the opposite wall, all controlled power even in exhaustion. The torchlight plays across his scarred torso, highlighting the map of violence written on his skin. Each mark tells a story—battles fought, pain endured, survival earned through blood and will.
He's magnificent, I realize with unwanted clarity. Not pretty like the pleasure slaves or refined like the nobles. He's beautiful the way storms are beautiful—dangerous and wild and absolutely untamed.
A long scar curves along his ribs where some beast's claws found their mark. Another crosses his shoulder, pale and raised, speaking of a blade that nearly killed him. His hands bear the calluses of a lifetime holding weapons, and when he shifts position, muscle moves beneath scarred skin like water.
I should be terrified. This man could snap my neck without effort, could take what Valdris offered him regardless of my wishes. The smart thing would be to cower, to appease, to make myself small and forgettable.
Instead, I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way shadows pool in the hollow of his throat.
God help me, I'm drawn to him.
The admission sends heat through my veins like strong wine. After years of careful calculation, of measuring every word and gesture for maximum survival value, this raw attraction feels like madness.
But undeniable.
His breathing deepens, though I suspect he's no more asleep than I am. We're both too wary, too aware of each other's presence in this cramped space.
When was the last time I shared a room with a man who wasn't Valdris? Years, certainly. And never one like this—all leashed violence and uncompromising honor wrapped in scarred flesh.
The contrast between them couldn't be starker. Valdris with his pale, soft hands and cruel smile. His touch like ice, calculated to dominate rather than please. Every caress a reminder of ownership, every kiss a brand of possession.
Ronan's hands are scarred, callused, made for violence. But when he spoke of the girl in Oshta, something gentle flickered in those steel-blue eyes. A protectiveness that cost him everything.
What would those hands feel like without the intent to harm? Would they be gentle? Rough? Would they know how to touch a woman for pleasure rather than pain?
The thought sends unwanted heat pooling in my belly, and I force it away with practiced discipline. Such fantasies are dangerous luxuries I can't afford.
"Can't sleep either?" he asks quietly, not opening his eyes.
"The accommodations leave something to be desired."
"Could be worse."
"How, exactly?"
"We could be dead."
I almost laugh at his pragmatism. "Give it time."
"Planning to murder me in my sleep?"
"The thought has crossed my mind."
Now he does open his eyes, fixing me with that unsettling stare. "You'd have to get close first."
The words carry subtle challenge, and I feel answering fire kindle in my chest. Even exhausted and chained to this nightmare, he can still provoke me with a look.
