Chapter 13 Ronan
RONAN
The evening routine has become grimly familiar—guards escort us back to our shared cell after another day of blood and performance. Tonight, however, their conversation carries clearly through the stone corridors.
"Look at that ass," Marcus leers as he shoves Corrina ahead of him. "Waste of good flesh, keeping her locked up with the beast."
"Valdris always did have strange tastes," Korven agrees. "All that silk and perfume, and for what? So she can tend to gladiator wounds?"
They pause outside our cell door, keys jangling as they prepare the locks. Corrina stands rigid between them, jaw clenched but silent.
"I'd show her what a real man feels like," Marcus continues, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive. "None of this gentle harem treatment."
"Course, she's probably grateful for the attention. Harem trash always are, once you strip away the fancy clothes."
The crude laughter that follows sets my teeth on edge, but I remain motionless against the far wall. Not my business. Not my concern.
"Bet she purrs real sweet when you know what you're doing," Korven adds with a disgusting chuckle. "That mouth of hers was made for more than sharp words."
My hands form into fists despite my best efforts to remain indifferent. These bastards speak of her like she's a piece of meat, something to be used and discarded.
"Wonder if the beast's figured out what to do with her yet," Marcus muses. "Seems like a waste, all that beauty going untouched."
"Maybe he likes his women with more fight. Harem girls are usually too broken to be interesting."
The lock clicks open with mechanical precision. They shove Corrina through the door with unnecessary force, and something inside my chest snaps like an overstretched rope.
Before rational thought can intervene, I'm on my feet and slamming into the iron bars with bone-jarring force. The sound echoes through the corridor like thunder.
"Say that again," I snarl through clenched teeth. "I fucking dare you."
Both guards jump back, startled by the sudden violence. Marcus recovers first, hand dropping to his sword hilt.
"Easy there, beast. Just making conversation."
"About what? Your plans to rape a helpless woman?"
"Rape?" Korven laughs nervously. "Who said anything about rape? We're just appreciating the scenery."
"Appreciate it somewhere else before I rip your fucking throats out."
The promise carries absolute sincerity, and they know it. I grip the bars hard enough to feel iron bite into my palms, blue eyes burning with barely leashed fury.
"You think these bars will hold me forever?" I continue in a voice like grinding stone. "You think I won't remember every word, every disgusting comment?"
"Ronan." Corrina's voice cuts through my rage like cold water. "That's enough."
But it's not enough. Not nearly. The image of these animals putting their hands on her, forcing themselves on someone who can't fight back—it ignites something primal and vicious in my chest.
"When I get out of here," I tell them quietly, "and I will get out—you'll wish you'd kept your mouths shut."
They exchange uncertain glances, suddenly aware they've awakened something dangerous. Without another word, they hurry away down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off stone walls.
I remain at the bars for long moments, breathing hard, letting the fury slowly ebb back to manageable levels.
"Well," Corrina says dryly. "That was dramatic."
I turn to find her standing in the center of our cell, arms crossed, green eyes blazing with something that looks suspiciously like anger.
"They had no right—"
"No right to what? Speak honestly about what I am?"
The flat dismissal in her voice catches me off guard. "You're not what they called you."
"Aren't I?" Her laugh is bitter as winter wind. "Harem trash, kept woman, expensive whore—the labels change, but the reality doesn't."
"That's not—"
"What? True? I spread my legs for my master's pleasure and live in luxury because of it. How is that different from any common prostitute?"
Her blunt honesty hits like a physical blow. But there's something underneath the crude words—pain, maybe, or shame carefully wrapped in defiance.
"Because you didn't choose it."
"Didn't I? I could have fought. Could have died with dignity rather than submit."
"You were a child when they took you."
"I was old enough to know right from wrong."
The bitter self-recrimination in her tone makes my chest tighten with unwanted sympathy. "You survived. That took strength."
"It took cowardice."
"It took intelligence."
"Don't." Her voice cracks like a whip. "Don't you dare try to make my choices noble. I am exactly what those guards said I am."
"You're a survivor."
"I'm a commodity. Pretty, trained, expensive, but still just something to be bought and sold."
She turns away from me, silk rustling as she moves to her usual corner. But I catch the tremor in her hands before she can hide it.
"I don't need your pity," she adds quietly.
"Good. You're not getting it."
"Then what was that display about?" she demands, whirling to face me again. "The threats, the snarling, the protective male posturing?"
"I don't like bullies."
"How noble. The gallant gladiator defending helpless women."
"You're not helpless."
"No? Then why did you feel the need to threaten them?"
The question stops me cold because I'm not entirely sure of the answer myself. Yes, I hate bullies. Yes, their crude comments disgusted me. But there was something else underneath the rage—something possessive and protective that I don't want to examine too closely.
"They were out of line," I say instead.
"They were honest. I am harem trash, Ronan. I've been Valdris's whore for three years."
"That doesn't define you."
"Doesn't it? What else am I? What other value do I have?"
"You're sharp-tongued, stubborn, intelligent—"
"All excellent qualities in a bed slave, I'm sure."
Her deliberate crudeness is designed to push me away, to restore the safe distance that anger provides. I recognize the tactic because I use it myself.
"You're also brave," I add quietly.
"Brave?" She laughs, the sound hollow. "I hide in silk and jewels while other people fight my battles."
"You tend my wounds every night despite hating me for getting you into this situation."
"That's not bravery. That's practicality."
"Is it? Or is it the only way you know how to fight back?"
She goes very still, green eyes wide with something that might be surprise. As if no one has ever suggested she might be fighting at all.
"I don't fight," she whispers.
"You argue with me every night. You refuse to break despite everything you've endured. You tear expensive silk to bandage my wounds and then mock me for bleeding." I lean back against the wall, studying her face. "If that's not fighting, what is it?"
She doesn't answer, but I see the way her hands tremble before she clenches them into fists.
"I hate you," she says finally.
"I know."
"You make everything complicated."
"Life is complicated."
"It was simpler before you arrived."
"Simpler isn't always better."
We stare at each other across the narrow cell, two damaged people trying to make sense of whatever this is between us. Not friendship, certainly. But not pure hatred anymore either.
"Go to sleep, Ronan."
"You go to sleep."
"I will."
"Good."
But neither of us moves, and the silence lingers between us like a taut rope. Finally, she settles into her corner with sharp, angry movements while I claim my spot against the opposite wall.
The cell falls quiet except for the sound of our breathing. In the darkness, I find myself wondering why she affects me like this—why her pain stirs something protective in my chest, why her defiance makes me want to smile.
She's maddening. Sharp-tongued and prickly and absolutely determined to keep me at arm's length.
So why can't I stop thinking about the way her hands shake when she's trying not to cry?
Damn woman is going to drive me insane.