Chapter 14 Corrina
CORRINA
Sleep brings no peace, only vivid images that leave me breathless and aching. In my dreams, Ronan moves through the arena like liquid death, his sword catching sunlight as he cuts down opponents with brutal grace. But it's not the violence that makes my pulse race—it's the way he looks doing it.
Magnificent. Deadly. Utterly alive in a way that makes my carefully controlled existence feel like a pale shadow.
Dream-Ronan's eyes find mine across the sand, and there's something in his gaze that sends heat spiraling through my belly. Not hatred this time, but hunger. Raw, primal need that strips away every mask I wear.
He approaches the viewing box, blood-spattered and beautiful, reaching for me with scarred hands that promise things I've never allowed myself to want.
"Corrina," he says, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse.
I wake with a gasp, silk clinging to sweat-dampened skin, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The cell is dark except for a sliver of moonlight through the barred window, and across the narrow space, Ronan sleeps peacefully against the stone wall.
Shame burns through me like acid. What kind of woman dreams of a man who despises her? Who finds herself aroused by violence and fury wrapped in scarred flesh?
I press trembling fingers to my lips, trying to forget the dream-taste of him, the imagined weight of his hands on my skin. This is madness. Dangerous, foolish madness that will get both of us killed.
But even as I tell myself that, my eyes drift to where moonlight plays across his sleeping form, highlighting the powerful lines of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
God help me, I want him.
Dawn brings the familiar routine—guards, separation, another day of watching him risk his life for entertainment. But today feels different. Charged. Every time our eyes meet, I remember the dream-heat of his touch.
"You look tired," Valdris observes over breakfast, pale eyes studying my face with an uncomfortable intensity. "Not sleeping well?"
"The accommodations are adequate."
"Are they? I do hope our manticore isn't proving... troublesome."
The loaded question makes my cheeks burn, but I keep my expression neutral. "He keeps to himself."
"How disappointing. I had hoped for more... interaction by now."
"Patience, Master. These things take time."
"Indeed they do. Though I confess, watching him fight with such passion suggests he has considerable energy to spare."
The implication in his words makes my skin crawl, but I take another bite of honeyed fruit. "Men express frustration in different ways."
"Some do, yes. Others find more... intimate outlets."
By the time I'm escorted to the arena, my nerves are strung tight as bowstrings. Today's opponent is a massive orc with fists like hammers, and I watch through my fingers as Ronan barely dodges each crushing blow.
When it's over—when he stands victorious over the beast's corpse—our eyes meet across the blood-soaked sand. Something electric passes between us, a recognition that really has nothing to do with hatred but everything to do with the dream that still burns in my memory.
I look away first, cheeks flaming.
"You fought sloppily today," I inform him that evening as I clean a particularly nasty cut along his forearm.
"Did I?"
"The orc nearly crushed your skull. Twice."
"But it didn't."
"Luck won't save you forever."
"Neither will caution."
His voice carries an edge I haven't heard before—something darker, more dangerous. When I look up from my work, those steel-blue eyes are studying my face.
"Something troubling you?" I ask with forced lightness.
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You've been different today. Distracted."
Heat blooms on my face despite my best efforts. "I'm always distracted when tending to someone stupid enough to let an orc use him as a punching bag."
"Is that what this is about? My fighting?"
"What else would it be about?"
"You tell me, Corrina."
The way he says my name—low and rough—sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. Just like in the dream.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Isn't there?" He leans forward slightly, bringing us closer together in the confined space. "Because you've been looking at me differently all day."
"I look at you the same way I always have. With appropriate disgust."
"Liar."
The single word hangs between us like a challenge. My pulse quickens, but I find the will to force myself to meet his gaze steadily.
"Careful, beast. Your ego is showing."
"Is it? Or are you afraid to admit what you're really thinking?"
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Prove it."
The challenge in his voice makes something reckless stir in my chest. Before I can think better of it, I'm rising from my crouch, moving closer until we're separated by mere inches.
"You think I'm afraid of you?" I whisper.
"I think you're afraid of yourself."
"You know nothing about me."
"I know you dream."
The words hit like physical blows. How can he possibly know about the dreams? About the shameful yearning that keeps me awake at night?
"Everyone dreams."
"Not like you do. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me. Hunger. Want. All the things a good little harem girl isn't supposed to feel."
"You arrogant—"
"Prove me wrong."
"How?"
"Stop running. Stop hiding behind sharp words and sharper walls."
Something snaps inside me. Before I can think, I'm pressing closer, backing him against the iron bars of our cell. My palms flatten against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath scarred skin.
"Is this what you want?" I breathe. "Proof that I'm not afraid?"
His hands come up to grip my wrists, but he doesn't push me away. Instead, he holds me there, steel-blue eyes burning with something that could be surprise or hunger or both.
"Corrina..."
"What? Having second thoughts about your brave challenge?"
We're so close now that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can count the silver flecks in his eyes. His lips are inches from mine, and the memory of dream-kisses makes my pulse race.
"You don't know what you're doing," he says roughly.
"Don't I?"
I lean closer, drawn by some force I can't resist. His breathing changes, becomes ragged, and I see the moment his control starts to slip.
Then, without warning, he shoves me back with enough force to send me stumbling.
"No," he snarls, eyes blazing with fury and something else. "Not like this. Not because you're trying to prove a point."
The rejection hits like a slap, leaving me gasping and ashamed. What was I thinking? Throwing myself at him like some desperate creature?
"I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were. And we both know it."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm night air. "I hate you."
"Good. Hate is safer."
"Safer than what?"
"Than whatever the hell that was."
We glance at each other across the cell, both breathing hard, both shaken by how quickly things escalated. The air between us simmers with unspoken wants and desperate denials.
"Go to sleep, Corrina."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Then stop doing stupid things that will get us killed."
I retreat to my corner with as much dignity as I can manage, but my hands are still shaking. From anger, I tell myself. From humiliation.
Not from the lingering heat of his touch or the memory of how his eyes looked just before he pushed me away.
Definitely not from that.