Chapter 15 Ronan
RONAN
The morning brings fresh aches from yesterday's fight, but I force myself through the familiar motions anyway. In this cramped cell, movement is my only weapon against despair and the growing tension that crackles between us like lightning.
I shadowbox against imaginary opponents, my muscles remembering the weight of steel even without blades in hand. Strike, parry, riposte—the deadly dance that's kept me alive through countless battles.
"Fascinating," Corrina observes from her corner, voice dripping with false boredom. "Is this how all caged beasts pass their time?"
"Better than wallowing in silk and self-pity."
"I don't wallow."
"Don't you?" I pivot into a brutal combination—elbow strike, knee to the gut, throat punch that would crush windpipes. "What would you call it then?"
"Survival."
"Same thing I'm doing."
She falls silent, but I can feel her watching as I work through more complex sequences. The confined space limits my options, but I make do, imagining minotaurs and shadow wolves where only stone walls exist.
"That won't work against an orc," she says suddenly.
I pause mid-strike. "What won't?"
"That combination. Too slow. Yesterday's opponent would have crushed your skull before you landed the third hit."
The observation is disturbingly accurate. "And what would you know about fighting orcs?"
"I know about watching men die trying."
Her voice carries a weight I hadn't expected, memories of other gladiators who didn't survive their encounters. How many fighters has she watched fall over the years?
"Then what would you suggest?"
"Speed over power. Stay mobile, strike fast, get out before they can retaliate."
"Easier said than done when you're actually facing two tons of muscle and rage."
"Is it?" She rises with fluid grace, studying my stance with uncomfortable intensity. "Show me."
"Show you what?"
"How you'd fight something that size." Her green eyes hold a challenge I don't quite understand. "Pretend I'm the orc."
"You're half my size and twice as fragile."
"Then it should be easy to demonstrate proper technique."
There's something in her tone—a desperate kind of hunger that has nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the need to understand, to participate rather than just observe.
"This is insane."
"Probably. Show me anyway."
Against my better judgment, I settle into a fighting stance. "Fine. But don't blame me when you get hurt."
"I won't."
I move slowly at first, demonstrating footwork and basic strikes while she watches with the intensity of a scholar studying ancient texts. Her eyes track every movement, memorizing angles and timing with frightening precision.
"Like this?" She attempts to mirror my stance, and I bite back a laugh.
"Your feet are wrong. And your hands. And basically everything else."
"Then fix it."
"I'm not a teacher."
"No, you're a killer. Teach me to kill."
The raw honesty in her voice stops me cold. Because that's what she's really asking for, isn't it? Not self-defense or martial arts, but the tools to take control of her own fate.
"Why?"
"Because I'm tired of being helpless."
The admission costs her, I can see it in the way her hands are shaking before she clenches them into fists. How long has she been watching from the sidelines, powerless to affect her own destiny?
"You're not helpless."
"Aren't I? I can't fight, can't protect myself, can't even leave this place without permission." Her laugh is bitter. "What would you call that?"
"Temporary."
"Nothing about this feels temporary."
"Your stance is all wrong," I tell her, moving closer despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain distance. "Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced."
She adjusts her position, silk rustling as she tries to copy my movements. Better, but still awkward.
"Now what?"
"Basic strike. Straight punch, put your whole body behind it."
She swings with surprising force, but her form is terrible. The blow would barely scratch an actual opponent.
"Pathetic," I say without thinking.
Her eyes flash with fury. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"Easy for you to say. You've been training your whole life."
"So? That's just an excuse."
"An excuse?" Her voice rises dangerously. "I've spent the last three years as a decorative object. Forgive me if I'm not immediately proficient at violence."
"You're soft," I snap, letting frustration sharpen my words. "Pampered and weak and—"
"I am not weak."
"Then prove it."
She swings again, this time with real anger behind the blow. Still technically awful, but there's genuine force in it now. Real intent to cause damage.
"Better. But your timing is off."
"Then show me."
"I am showing you."
"No, you're critiquing. There's a difference."
Before I can stop her, she tries the combination again, putting everything she has into each strike. Her form is still terrible, but there's something almost beautiful about her determination.
"Like this?" she asks, throwing another punch.
I catch her wrist mid-swing without thinking, intending to correct her angle. But the motion brings us chest to chest, close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her green eyes.
Heat roars through me like wildfire, sudden and overwhelming. Her lips part slightly, breath coming fast, and I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
"Ronan..."
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it hits me like a painful physical blow. Every rational thought evaporates as I lean closer, drawn by forces I don't understand and can't resist.
For a heartbeat, we stand frozen in place—her wrist still caught in my grip, our bodies pressed together, the air between us electric with possibility. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and I can see the exact moment she stops breathing.
I should step back. Should release her and restore the safe distance that keeps us both sane. But her scent surrounds me—jasmine and silk and something uniquely her—and I find myself leaning closer instead.
"This is insane," I breathe.
"Yes."
But she doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into me, her free hand coming up to rest against my chest. The touch burns through me like brands.
"We can't—"
"I know."
"Valdris—"
"I don't care."
The words are barely audible, but they shatter what remains of my control. My thumb traces across her pulse point, feeling how it races beneath fragile skin.
"Corrina."
"Yes?"
I'm going to kiss her. Despite every reason why it's a terrible idea, despite the consequences we'll both face, I'm going to claim those soft lips and damn the world.
Then footsteps echo through the corridor outside, and reality crashes back like ice water.
I release her so quickly she stumbles, putting as much distance as possible between us. By the time the guard appears at our cell door, we're on opposite sides of the cramped space, both breathing hard.
"Everything alright in here?" Thane asks suspiciously.
"Perfect," I manage, my voice rougher than usual.
He studies us for a moment longer, then shrugs and continues his patrol. When his footsteps fade, the silence stretches between us like a chasm.
"That was..." Corrina begins.
"A mistake."
"Yes."
"It won't happen again."
"No."
But even as we make these promises, I can see the truth in her eyes. Feel the way the air still crackles between us like the aftermath of lightning.
We're playing with fire, and sooner or later, we're both going to get burned.