Page 58 of Her Manticore Master
I resume my forms, each movement sharper, fueled by his words and my own doubts. But as I glance back at Corrina, sleeping on the cot, her face soft in the moonlight, I know there’s no turning back.
She’s my responsibility now. Her life, her death—it’s on me. And I’ll be damned if I let her fall.
24
CORRINA
“Get up.”
A low growl slices through my restless sleep. Ronan, already in training leathers, looms over me, a terrifying silhouette in the pre-dawn gloom, radiating impatient energy.
“It’s still dark,” I mumble, pulling the rough blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Go back to your corner and brood in silence. You’re so good at it.”
“I said, get up.” He yanks the blanket off me without ceremony, exposing me to the biting chill of the stone floor. “Your new life starts now, princess. And it doesn’t wait for the sun.”
Every muscle in my body protests as I force myself to sit up. I’m sore from… everything. The melee, the escape, the nights spent on the floor before Ronan’s strange act of chivalry. “What is the rush? The melee isn’t for weeks.”
“The melee is in nine days,” he corrects, his tone devoid of any sympathy. “And you have a lifetime of softness to unlearn. We don’t have time for beauty sleep.” He tosses a bundle of roughspun cloth at me. “Get dressed. We’re going to run.”
“Run where?” I ask, looking around the ten-by-ten-foot space. “In circles?”
“Until you collapse,” he says, his expression grim. “Then you’ll get up and run some more.”
And so it begins. For what feels like an eternity, I do nothing but run in a tight circle around our cell. The stone floor is uneven and unforgiving, and the stale air soon burns in my lungs. Ronan stands in the center like a statue, arms crossed, his steel-blue eyes tracking my every faltering step.
“Faster,” he barks when my pace slows. “You call that running? My grandmother could move faster, and she’s been dead for twenty years.”
“My grandmother,” I gasp, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead, “was a lady. She never ran.”
“And that’s why you’re weak,” he sneers. “Lift your knees. Stop shuffling like you’re walking to your own execution.”
“I feel like I am,” I mutter, but I do as he says, my legs screaming in protest. Every part of me wants to quit, to collapse onto the floor and tell him to go to hell. But the memory of my own words—Break me, or make me strong—is a relentless whip at my back. I asked for this. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me fail on the first day.
“Now, you learn how to take a hit,” Ronan announces after I’ve run until my legs are jelly and my lungs are on fire. He gestures for me to stand before him. “The arena isn’t a debate society, Corrina. Words won’t save you when a blade is coming for your throat. You will get hit. The question is whether you’ll stay down.”
“I’m not sure I can stand up right now,” I pant, leaning against the wall for support.
“Then this will be a short lesson.” Before I can react, his open palm cracks across my cheek. It’s not a full-force blow, but it’s hard enough to snap my head back and send me stumbling to thestone floor, my ears ringing. The sting is sharp, shocking, and utterly humiliating.
“You bastard!” I scream, scrambling back on my hands and knees.
“Get up,” he says, his voice a flat command.
I glare at him through a curtain of tangled hair, my cheek throbbing. “You hit me.”
“And I’ll do it again. Get. Up.”
Fury, hot and potent, gives me the strength to push to my feet. I lunge at him, my fists flailing wildly. He sidesteps my clumsy attack with insulting ease and shoves me, sending me sprawling back onto the unforgiving stone.
“You fight like a spoiled child having a tantrum,” he says, looming over me. “Where’s your stance? Where’s your guard?”
“Go to hell!” I curse, my voice thick with tears of rage and frustration.
“Hell is coming,” he says grimly. “I’m trying to prepare you for it. Now get up, and this time, try to block.”
This becomes our new reality. He pushes, I fall. He slaps, I curse. My body becomes a canvas of bruises, each one a testament to my own weakness. But with every fall, a hard little knot of defiance grows in my gut. I will not stay down.
“Your fist is wrong,” he growls after I land a particularly pathetic blow against his forearm.
