Page 27 of Her Manticore Master

When it finally lunges, I'm ready. My blade takes it through the heart in a perfect thrust, but its momentum carries us both to the ground. We roll across bloodstained sand, its claws raking my chest before it finally goes still.

I rise on shaking legs, victorious but barely. The crowd's approval seems distant, unimportant. All that matters is that I'm still breathing.

For now.

The descent to the cells passes in a haze of blood loss and exhaustion. Guards half-carry me down stone steps, my legs unsteady beneath me. The wounds aren't fatal, but they're deep enough to need attention.

They shove me through the cell door without ceremony. I stumble, catching myself against the far wall as iron clangs shut behind me.

Moments later, the door opens again. Corrina is thrust inside with less violence but equal disregard. Her emerald dress is wrinkled, her hair disheveled, but she appears unharmed.

"Lovely accommodations," she says dryly, brushing dust from her silk.

"Could be worse."

"Could it? You're bleeding all over the floor."

I look down at the growing red stain beneath me. The wolf's claws went deeper than I thought.

"It'll stop."

"Not anytime soon." She studies my wounds with clinical detachment. "That one along your ribs is particularly nasty."

"I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have. You seem to collect scars like other men collect coin."

Despite the pain, I almost smile at her sardonic tone. "What can I say? I'm talented."

"Talented at nearly getting yourself killed, apparently."

"Nearly doesn't count."

"Tell that to your blood loss."

We glare at each other in the narrow cell, neither willing to show weakness. But I can see concern flickering in her green eyes despite her sharp words.

"Where did they take you today?" I ask, partly to distract from my wounds.

"To watch you fight." Her voice turns flat, emotionless. "Front row seats to your glorious near-death experience."

The words hit harder than expected. She was forced to watch me battle for my life, to see me nearly torn apart for entertainment.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've seen worse."

"You need those cleaned," Corrina says after a long silence, nodding at my wounds.

"They'll heal."

"Not if they fester. And I refuse to share a cell with a rotting corpse."

Before I can protest, she moves closer, silk rustling against stone. Her hands hover over the worst gash along my ribs, not quite touching but close enough that I feel her warmth.

"This needs binding."

"With what?"