Page 34 of Her Manticore Master
"You argue with me every night. You refuse to break despite everything you've endured. You tear expensive silk to bandage my wounds and then mock me for bleeding." I lean back against the wall, studying her face. "If that's not fighting, what is it?"
She doesn't answer, but I see the way her hands tremble before she clenches them into fists.
"I hate you," she says finally.
"I know."
"You make everything complicated."
"Life is complicated."
"It was simpler before you arrived."
"Simpler isn't always better."
We stare at each other across the narrow cell, two damaged people trying to make sense of whatever this is between us. Not friendship, certainly. But not pure hatred anymore either.
"Go to sleep, Ronan."
"You go to sleep."
"I will."
"Good."
But neither of us moves, and the silence lingers between us like a taut rope. Finally, she settles into her corner with sharp, angry movements while I claim my spot against the opposite wall.
The cell falls quiet except for the sound of our breathing. In the darkness, I find myself wondering why she affects me like this—why her pain stirs something protective in my chest, why her defiance makes me want to smile.
She's maddening. Sharp-tongued and prickly and absolutely determined to keep me at arm's length.
So why can't I stop thinking about the way her hands shake when she's trying not to cry?
Damn woman is going to drive me insane.
14
CORRINA
Sleep brings no peace, only vivid images that leave me breathless and aching. In my dreams, Ronan moves through the arena like liquid death, his sword catching sunlight as he cuts down opponents with brutal grace. But it's not the violence that makes my pulse race—it's the way he looks doing it.
Magnificent. Deadly. Utterly alive in a way that makes my carefully controlled existence feel like a pale shadow.
Dream-Ronan's eyes find mine across the sand, and there's something in his gaze that sends heat spiraling through my belly. Not hatred this time, but hunger. Raw, primal need that strips away every mask I wear.
He approaches the viewing box, blood-spattered and beautiful, reaching for me with scarred hands that promise things I've never allowed myself to want.
"Corrina," he says, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse.
I wake with a gasp, silk clinging to sweat-dampened skin, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The cell is dark except for a sliver of moonlight through the barred window,and across the narrow space, Ronan sleeps peacefully against the stone wall.
Shame burns through me like acid. What kind of woman dreams of a man who despises her? Who finds herself aroused by violence and fury wrapped in scarred flesh?
I press trembling fingers to my lips, trying to forget the dream-taste of him, the imagined weight of his hands on my skin. This is madness. Dangerous, foolish madness that will get both of us killed.
But even as I tell myself that, my eyes drift to where moonlight plays across his sleeping form, highlighting the powerful lines of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
God help me, I want him.
