Page 32 of Her Manticore Master
My hands form into fists despite my best efforts to remain indifferent. These bastards speak of her like she's a piece of meat, something to be used and discarded.
"Wonder if the beast's figured out what to do with her yet," Marcus muses. "Seems like a waste, all that beauty going untouched."
"Maybe he likes his women with more fight. Harem girls are usually too broken to be interesting."
The lock clicks open with mechanical precision. They shove Corrina through the door with unnecessary force, and something inside my chest snaps like an overstretched rope.
Before rational thought can intervene, I'm on my feet and slamming into the iron bars with bone-jarring force. The sound echoes through the corridor like thunder.
"Say that again," I snarl through clenched teeth. "I fucking dare you."
Both guards jump back, startled by the sudden violence. Marcus recovers first, hand dropping to his sword hilt.
"Easy there, beast. Just making conversation."
"About what? Your plans to rape a helpless woman?"
"Rape?" Korven laughs nervously. "Who said anything about rape? We're just appreciating the scenery."
"Appreciate it somewhere else before I rip your fucking throats out."
The promise carries absolute sincerity, and they know it. I grip the bars hard enough to feel iron bite into my palms, blue eyes burning with barely leashed fury.
"You think these bars will hold me forever?" I continue in a voice like grinding stone. "You think I won't remember every word, every disgusting comment?"
"Ronan." Corrina's voice cuts through my rage like cold water. "That's enough."
But it's not enough. Not nearly. The image of these animals putting their hands on her, forcing themselves on someone who can't fight back—it ignites something primal and vicious in my chest.
"When I get out of here," I tell them quietly, "and I will get out—you'll wish you'd kept your mouths shut."
They exchange uncertain glances, suddenly aware they've awakened something dangerous. Without another word, they hurry away down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off stone walls.
I remain at the bars for long moments, breathing hard, letting the fury slowly ebb back to manageable levels.
"Well," Corrina says dryly. "That was dramatic."
I turn to find her standing in the center of our cell, arms crossed, green eyes blazing with something that looks suspiciously like anger.
"They had no right?—"
"No right to what? Speak honestly about what I am?"
The flat dismissal in her voice catches me off guard. "You're not what they called you."
"Aren't I?" Her laugh is bitter as winter wind. "Harem trash, kept woman, expensive whore—the labels change, but the reality doesn't."
"That's not?—"
"What? True? I spread my legs for my master's pleasure and live in luxury because of it. How is that different from any common prostitute?"
Her blunt honesty hits like a physical blow. But there's something underneath the crude words—pain, maybe, or shame carefully wrapped in defiance.
"Because you didn't choose it."
"Didn't I? I could have fought. Could have died with dignity rather than submit."
"You were a child when they took you."
