Page 8 of Her Manticore Master
"And such fire from a spoiled brat." I study her face, noting the tiny tells—the pulse fluttering at her throat, the way her hands clench in her silk skirts. "Though I suppose even pets have teeth when cornered."
"I am not cornered."
"Aren't you?" I let my gaze drift over her perfect appearance—the artfully arranged hair, the expensive silk, the jewelry thatmarks her as property just as surely as my chains mark me. "When did you last make a choice that wasn't dictated by your master's whims?"
"When do you remember last winning a fight that mattered?"
The words hit deep, dredging up memories of my failure in Oshta. But I've learned to weaponize pain, to turn it into fuel for the fire that keeps me alive.
"Every day I don't break is a victory," I tell her. "Can you say the same?"
"I don't need to break. I bend."
"Like a reed in the wind. Very inspiring."
"Better than shattering like cheap steel."
"We'll see about that tomorrow when I face your master's minotaurs."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Minotaurs?"
"Three of them. Apparently Valdris wants to test his investment."
Something flickers across her face—surprise? Concern? It's gone too quickly to identify, but it was there.
"You're afraid," I realize.
"I'm not?—"
"Not for yourself. For me." The revelation hits like lightning. "You don't want to see me broken after all."
"Don't flatter yourself, beast."
But her voice lacks its earlier venom, and I see the truth in her eyes. Whatever game she's playing, part of her—the part she tries so hard to bury—recognizes a kindred spirit.
"My name is Ronan," I say quietly.
She looks at me—young, beautiful, intelligent, fierce, and desperate to survive a world that sees her as mere decoration. Despite everything, my first thought is how absolutely stunning she is. I hate that I notice.
"Ronan," she says finally, testing the name like wine on her tongue.
"And you're Corrina. The pit master's favorite."
"I'm whatever I need to be."
"Which is what, exactly? His whore? His spy? His entertainment?"
The mask slips back into place, cold and sharp. "I'm his guest. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I sit, you look like just another prisoner with better accommodations."
"At least my accommodations don't come with scheduled death matches."
"No, just scheduled rape. Much more civilized."
She flinches as if I'd hit her, and I immediately regret the words. Whatever else she is, whatever choices she's made to survive, she doesn't deserve that.
"I'm sorry," I start.
