Page 21 of Her Manticore Master

The silence lingers between us, heavy with unspoken threats and darker possibilities.

"I won't make this easy for you," I warn.

"Good," he says quietly. "Easy things break too quickly."

His words sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. This arrangement terrifies him as much as it does me. We are trapped in this cage together. The real question is which of us will break first.

9

RONAN

The cell door's echo fades, leaving us alone in this cramped stone box that reeks of desperation and old blood. Torchlight flickers through the barred window, casting dancing shadows across damp walls.

Corrina stands pressed against the far corner, emerald silk bright against gray stone. Even in this hellhole, she maintains her regal bearing—chin raised, shoulders straight, every inch the aristocrat despite her circumstances.

"So," she says, her voice carefully controlled. "Here we are."

"Here we are," I agree.

The silence hovers between us like a taut bowstring. I can hear her breathing, quick and shallow despite her composed exterior. Fear, maybe. Or rage. With her, it's hard to tell the difference.

"Well?" she asks finally. "Aren't you going to follow your master's orders?"

The words land like a slap. "He's not my master."

"No? Then what do you call the man who owns your life?"

"A dead man walking."

Her laugh is cold and bitter as winter wind. "How poetic. Though I notice you're still breathing while he sits in comfort upstairs."

"For now."

"Yes, for now. Which brings us back to our current... situation." She gestures at the cramped cell with false elegance. "He expects you to claim your prize."

The way she says "prize" makes it sound like poison. I remain motionless against the opposite wall, arms crossed over my chest.

"I won't touch you."

"Why not? Afraid you might enjoy it too much?"

Her tone is mocking, designed to provoke. But I hear the tremor underneath—the fear she's trying to hide behind sharp words and sharper smiles.

"I'm no one's puppet," I growl.

"Everyone's someone's puppet here. The only question is who pulls your strings."

"Not him. Not you. Not anyone."

Corrina pushes off the wall with fluid grace, taking a single step closer. In the confined space, even that small movement feels significant.

"Such noble words," she purrs, though her green eyes remain wary. "But we both know what he expects. What he wants to see."

"Let him want."

"You think defying him will end well? He has ways of encouraging compliance."

"Let him try."