Chapter 12 Corrina
CORRINA
Days blur together in a predictable rhythm of violence and survival.
Dawn brings guards to drag us from our shared cell—Ronan to prepare for whatever fresh hell awaits in the arena, me to Valdris's private dining chamber where I'm expected to smile and make pleasant conversation over breakfast I can barely stomach.
"You're looking pale, my dear," Valdris observes as servants place delicate pastries before us. "Not sleeping well?"
"The accommodations are... rustic."
His pale eyes glitter with amusement. "I'm sure. Tell me, how is our manticore adapting to his new living arrangements?"
The question carries dangerous undertones. I select my words carefully, aware that every syllable might determine Ronan's fate.
"He's... manageable."
"Manageable?" Valdris's laugh is silk over steel. "How disappointing. I had hoped for more... passion."
Heat spreads across my cheeks, but I maintain my composure. "If you expected immediate results, perhaps your expectations were unrealistic."
"Perhaps. Though I confess, watching him fight with such fury each day suggests considerable... pent-up energy."
The implication makes my skin crawl, but I take another bite of honeyed fruit. "Men often express frustration through violence."
"Indeed they do. How fortunate that we provide such excellent outlets."
After breakfast comes the arena. Front row seats in Valdris's viewing box, silk cushions and crystal wine goblets while men die for sport below. I've learned to school my expression into polite interest, to hide the way my heart hammers each time Ronan enters those blood-soaked sands.
Today it's a massive stone troll, its hide thick as armor. Tomorrow it might be blade dancers or venomous serpents. The variety is endless, but the outcome remains constant—Ronan survives through skill and stubborn refusal to die.
Each victory costs him, though. I see it in the growing collection of scars, the way exhaustion shadows his steel-blue eyes.
"You're getting sloppy," I inform him as I press torn silk against a fresh gash along his shoulder.
"Good morning to you too."
"It's afternoon. And that troll nearly took your head off."
"Nearly doesn't count."
"It will when 'nearly' becomes 'successfully.'" I tie the makeshift bandage with perhaps more force than necessary. "There. Try not to bleed through it before evening."
"Your concern is touching."
"It's not concern. It's practicality. I refuse to share a cell with a corpse."
But my hands are gentle despite my words, careful as they clean and bind each wound. It's become routine over the past week—this strange dance of care wrapped in insults.
"You missed a spot," he observes, nodding at a shallow cut near his collarbone.
"I'm not your personal healer."
"No, just my unwilling nursemaid."
I reach for the cut, but the angle is awkward. To treat it properly, I need to lean closer, close enough that I catch his scent—sweat and sand and something indefinably male that makes my pulse dance.
"Hold still," I mutter, trying to ignore the way his breathing changes when my fingers brush his skin.
"I am still."
"No, you're..." I look up to tell him to stop whatever he's doing, and find myself trapped in his gaze. Those steel-blue eyes study my face with an unsettling intensity, lingering on my mouth in a way that sends heat spiraling through my belly.
"I'm what?" His voice is rough, lower than usual.
"Nothing." I finish the bandage quickly and pull back, but not before I see something flicker in his expression. Hunger, maybe. Or simple male appreciation.
Either way, it's dangerous.
"You fight differently when you're angry," I observe the next evening as I tend a collection of minor wounds from his latest match.
"Angry?"
"Yesterday's opponent. The one who made comments about your... accommodations." Heat rises across my cheeks at the memory of what that crude gladiator had suggested about our sleeping arrangements. "You nearly tore him apart."
Something dark flickers across Ronan's features. "He shouldn't have spoken about you."
"Why? It's not like his assumptions were incorrect. We do share a cell."
"His assumptions about what happens in that cell were very incorrect."
The protective edge in his voice sends an unwanted thrill through me. When was the last time someone defended my honor, misguided as the gesture might be?
"How gallant. Defending the virtue of a harem girl."
"You're not just a harem girl."
The words catch me off guard. I look up from cleaning a cut on his knuckles to find him watching me with that unsettling intensity again.
"What else would I be?"
"Complicated."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "That's one word for it."
"You could have others. Sharp-tongued. Stubborn. Beautiful when you're furious."
The last comment makes me go very still. "Beautiful?"
"Like fire wrapped in silk. Especially when you glare at me like that."
I realize I am glaring—green eyes blazing with the kind of anger that's become my default response to any genuine emotion.
"I'm not beautiful. I'm convenient."
"For whom?"
"For Valdris. For you. For anyone who needs a pretty face to decorate their cage."
"I don't need decoration."
"No? Then what do you need?"
He's quiet for so long I’m beginning to think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Someone who fights back."
The admission hangs between us, sharp and unavoidable. Because I do fight back, don't I? Not with fists or weapons, but with words and will and the stubborn refusal to be broken completely.
"Is that what this is?" I ask softly. "Fighting?"
"What else would you call it?"
Good question. Our interactions have evolved from pure hostility to something more complex. Still sharp, still dangerous, but edged with something that resembles respect.
"Survival."
"Same thing, sometimes."
He's right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. In our respective cages, fighting back is the only way to maintain any sense of self.
"You realize this changes nothing," I tell him, finishing with his wounds and settling back into my corner. "We're still prisoners. Still trapped."
"I know."
"Still at his mercy."
"For now."
"Forever, more likely."
"We'll see."
There's something in his tone—quiet confidence that has absolutely nothing to do with arrogance and yet everything to do with unshakeable determination. It should annoy me, this blind faith in eventual freedom.
Instead, it kindles something dangerous in my chest. Something that feels suspiciously like hope.
"You're planning something," I observe.
"I'm planning to survive."
"That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?"
Our eyes meet across the narrow cell, and I see my own restless desperation reflected in steel-blue depths. Two caged creatures recognizing kindred spirits in each other.
"You're going to get us both killed with whatever scheme you're hatching," I warn.
"Better than dying slowly in here."
"Is it?"
"Ask me again when we're free."
The casual assumption that freedom is possible rather than probable sends another traitorous flutter through my chest. When was the last time someone spoke of my future as if it belonged to me?
"You're insane," I tell him.
"Probably."
"Definitely."
But I'm smiling as I say it, and he's smiling back, and something fundamental has shifted between us in this stone cage we're learning to call home.