Chapter 10 Corrina
CORRINA
The cell falls into uneasy quiet as the torch outside our window burns lower, casting ever-dimmer light through the iron bars. I remain curled in my corner, silk dress arranged around me like a barrier against the rough stone and the man who shares this nightmare.
He thinks I'm asleep.
Through lowered lashes, I watch him settle against the opposite wall, all controlled power even in exhaustion.
The torchlight plays across his scarred torso, highlighting the map of violence written on his skin.
Each mark tells a story—battles fought, pain endured, survival earned through blood and will.
He's magnificent, I realize with unwanted clarity. Not pretty like the pleasure slaves or refined like the nobles. He's beautiful the way storms are beautiful—dangerous and wild and absolutely untamed.
A long scar curves along his ribs where some beast's claws found their mark.
Another crosses his shoulder, pale and raised, speaking of a blade that nearly killed him.
His hands bear the calluses of a lifetime holding weapons, and when he shifts position, muscle moves beneath scarred skin like water.
I should be terrified. This man could snap my neck without effort, could take what Valdris offered him regardless of my wishes. The smart thing would be to cower, to appease, to make myself small and forgettable.
Instead, I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way shadows pool in the hollow of his throat.
God help me, I'm drawn to him.
The admission sends heat through my veins like strong wine. After years of careful calculation, of measuring every word and gesture for maximum survival value, this raw attraction feels like madness.
But undeniable.
His breathing deepens, though I suspect he's no more asleep than I am. We're both too wary, too aware of each other's presence in this cramped space.
When was the last time I shared a room with a man who wasn't Valdris? Years, certainly. And never one like this—all leashed violence and uncompromising honor wrapped in scarred flesh.
The contrast between them couldn't be starker. Valdris with his pale, soft hands and cruel smile. His touch like ice, calculated to dominate rather than please. Every caress a reminder of ownership, every kiss a brand of possession.
Ronan's hands are scarred, callused, made for violence. But when he spoke of the girl in Oshta, something gentle flickered in those steel-blue eyes. A protectiveness that cost him everything.
What would those hands feel like without the intent to harm? Would they be gentle? Rough? Would they know how to touch a woman for pleasure rather than pain?
The thought sends unwanted heat pooling in my belly, and I force it away with practiced discipline. Such fantasies are dangerous luxuries I can't afford.
"Can't sleep either?" he asks quietly, not opening his eyes.
"The accommodations leave something to be desired."
"Could be worse."
"How, exactly?"
"We could be dead."
I almost laugh at his pragmatism. "Give it time."
"Planning to murder me in my sleep?"
"The thought has crossed my mind."
Now he does open his eyes, fixing me with that unsettling stare. "You'd have to get close first."
The words carry subtle challenge, and I feel answering fire kindle in my chest. Even exhausted and chained to this nightmare, he can still provoke me with a look.
"I could if I wanted to."
"Could you?"
The question hangs between us like a brandished blade. Because we both know the truth—I couldn't hurt him even if I tried. Oh, I might manage a surprise attack if he truly trusted me, but Ronan doesn't trust anyone. Especially not me.
"This is insane," I whisper, more to myself than him. "I can't believe I'm here. In this place, with you."
"Blame Valdris."
"I blame you." But the words lack their earlier venom, coming out tired rather than angry. "If you hadn't provoked him—"
"He was already planning something. Men like him always are."
"You don't know that."
"I know his type. Cruel, intelligent, constantly seeking new forms of entertainment." His voice carries grim certainty. "We were doomed the moment he saw us together."
The casual acceptance in his tone infuriates me. "So that's it? We just... accept this?"
"We survive it."
"For how long? Until one of us breaks? Until you finally take what he offered?"
"I told you—I won't touch you."
"Why not?" The question escapes before I can stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I intended. "Most men would. Hell, most would have already tried."
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper.
"Because you've been touched enough by men who didn't ask."
The words wound like a physical blow, stripping away pretense and leaving raw truth exposed. He sees through every mask I wear, understands the careful control that keeps me functional.
"You don't know anything about my life," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Don't I?"
The simple question hangs suspended in the air. Because he does know, doesn't he? Recognizes a fellow prisoner despite our different cages.
Silence settles over us again, but it feels different now. Less hostile, more... understanding. The recognition of shared suffering, perhaps. Two broken things trying to remain whole.
"I hate this cage," I whisper into the darkness, the words pulled from some deep place I've kept locked away for years.
It's the first completely honest thing I've said to him. No games, no manipulation, no careful calculation. Just raw truth bleeding into the space between us.
Ronan doesn't reply, but I see something flicker in his steely-blue eyes. A moment of connection, brief as lightning but undeniably real.
He understands.
Of course he does. His cage just has different bars than mine—iron instead of silk, chains instead of jewelry. But we're both trapped, both performing for our master's amusement, both slowly dying inside despite still drawing breath.
"The worst part," I continue in that same broken whisper, "is pretending it's not. Smiling and laughing and acting grateful for pretty things that feel like shackles."
"I know."
Two simple words, but they carry the weight of genuine understanding. No judgment, no pity, just acknowledgment of shared pain.
I curl deeper into my silk cocoon, suddenly exhausted by honesty. It's been so long since I let anyone see past the masks that admitting even this small truth feels like bleeding out.
But as I close my eyes and try to find rest on the cold stone floor, I'm hyperaware of his presence across the narrow cell. The sound of his breathing, the slight shift when he settles more comfortably against the wall.
At last, I'm not alone with my nightmares.
I'm not sure if that makes me feel safer or more terrified.