Page 46 of Her Manticore Master
His cold gaze finds mine immediately, and that familiar cruel smile curves his lips.
Here it comes.
"My dear Ronan," Valdris calls out, his voice carrying clearly across the sand. "How are you finding your new accommodations?"
Every gladiator turns to stare at us, their faces ranging from curious to envious to outright hostile. Heat rises in my cheeks as I realize exactly what kind of spectacle we've become.
"Adequate," Ronan replies carefully.
"Just adequate?" Valdris's laugh is silk wrapped around steel. "How disappointing. I had hoped for more... enthusiastic reports."
The crowd murmurs with interest, sensing drama about to unfold. In the viewing boxes, nobles lean forward eagerly, wine forgotten in favor of better entertainment.
"Tell me," Valdris continues with theatrical timing, "have you had any success in breaking my stubborn jewel?"
The question hits like a physical blow. He's asking about our intimacy in front of thousands of people, reducing what happened between us to crude entertainment for his amusement.
Beside me, Ronan goes very still. I can feel tension radiating from his frame like heat from forge-steel, and for a moment I think he might do something spectacularly violent.
Instead, he throws back his head and laughs.
Rich, genuine laughter that echoes across the arena like thunder. He even puffs out his chest slightly, projecting masculine satisfaction for all to see.
"She's quite the fighter," he announces, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden hush. "Definitely lives up to her reputation."
My mouth falls open in shock. Of all the responses I expected, casual male boasting wasn't one of them. The implication in his words—that he's successfully "broken" me, claimed me, made me his—sends fury and humiliation warring through my chest.
How dare he?
My hands tighten into fists, nails biting into my palms as I fight the burning need to start swinging. The urge to launch myself at him, to claw and bite and make him pay for his casual dismissal of my dignity, is almost overwhelming.
But that's exactly what Valdris wants. Public drama. A spectacle to amuse his guests.
I won't give him the satisfaction.
Instead of attacking Ronan, I fix Valdris with my most scathing glare and let venom drip from every word.
"No one can break me," I call out, my voice carrying clearly across the arena. "And you should know that by now, Master."
The crowd goes quiet, sensing the dangerous undercurrents in our exchange. Even the gladiators seem fascinated by this public battle of wills.
"That's exactly why you like me so much," I continue with sweet malice. "Because I'm the one prize you could never truly claim."
Valdris's pale eyes glitter with something between amusement and fury. The insult hits home—a public reminder that despite years of trying, he's never managed to completely dominate me.
"Such spirit," he murmurs, though his voice carries to every corner of the arena. "How refreshing."
"Spirit is one word for it," I agree with a sharp smile.
For a moment, we stare at each other across the blood-soaked sand—master and pet, captor and captive, two strong wills locked in eternal combat. The crowd holds its collective breath, waiting to see who will break first.
Then Valdris laughs, and the dangerous moment passes.
"Indeed," he says with apparent good humor. "And that, my dear friends, is precisely why I treasure her so highly."
But I catch the flash of something darker in his expression before he turns to address the full arena. Whatever game he's playing, my defiance has just raised the stakes.
"Citizens of Vhoig!" he calls out, arms spread wide in theatrical gesture. "Today marks a special occasion. A grand melee unlike any you have witnessed before!"
