Chapter 20 Corrina
CORRINA
Iperch on an overturned barrel in the corner of the holding area, watching the gladiators interact for what must be the first time in years. Without the immediate threat of combat, they move around each other like cautious predators, testing boundaries and establishing hierarchy.
The air thrums with barely contained violence and desperate ambition. Everyone knows this grand melee represents their only chance at freedom—real or imagined—and they're willing to do anything to secure it.
"You fought the minotaur champion last season," a scarred orc tells a dark elf warrior. "I could use someone with that kind of speed."
"And I could use someone who doesn't die in the first five minutes," the elf replies with casual cruelty.
Everywhere I look, alliances are forming and dissolving like smoke. Gladiators size each other up, measuring strengths and weaknesses, calculating who might be useful and who represents a threat.
It's fascinating in a horrifying way. Like watching hungry wolves decide whether to hunt together or turn on each other.
But what makes my teeth clench is the steady stream of fighters approaching Ronan. One after another, they sidle up to him with offers and proposals, recognizing him as a valuable ally.
"Heard you took down three shadow wolves in one match," a minotaur rumbles, his massive frame towering over even Ronan's impressive height. "That's warrior's work."
"It was survival," Ronan replies with typical bluntness.
"Same thing. I could use a partner who knows how to survive."
I watch from my corner as more gladiators circle him like scavengers around fresh meat.
A pair of dark elves whisper about his killing efficiency.
An orc brags about his own victories, trying to prove his worth.
Even a few humans attempt to curry favor through flattery and shared stories of conquest.
They're selling themselves to him, and he's evaluating their offers with the cool calculation of a merchant at market.
It shouldn't bother me. I have no claim on him, no right to feel possessive about his choices.
So why does watching them grovel for his attention make me want to scream?
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice makes my skin crawl before I even look up. A naga gladiator has approached my barrel, his serpentine lower body coiled in lazy curves while his humanoid torso leans forward with predatory interest.
He's handsome in a cold, reptilian way—sharp features, scales that gleam like emeralds, muscles that speak of deadly strength. But there's something in his yellow eyes that makes every instinct scream danger.
"A lost little bird," he continues when I don't respond. "So far from her gilded cage."
"I'm not lost."
"No? Then what are you doing here among the killers and criminals?" His forked tongue flicks out to taste the air. "You smell of silk and luxury. Of soft living and softer flesh."
"I'm here because Valdris commanded it."
"Ah, but he's not here now, is he?" The naga's smile reveals fangs designed for tearing flesh. "Down here, different rules apply. Stronger rules."
I shift on my barrel, suddenly very aware of how isolated this corner has become. The other gladiators are too focused on their own negotiations to pay attention to one harem girl being harassed.
"What do you want?"
"Company. Conversation. Perhaps something more... intimate."
"Find it elsewhere."
"But I want it from you." He moves closer, scales rustling against stone. "I am Zephyr the Strangler, champion of twelve fights. I could protect you during the melee, ensure your survival."
"In exchange for what?"
"I think you know."
The casual assumption that my body is available for trade makes rage flare in my chest. But I keep my voice level, polite even.
"I'm flattered by your offer, but I must decline."
"Must you?" His laugh is like breaking glass. "I don't think you understand your position here, little bird. Without a strong protector, you'll be dead before the first round ends."
"I'll take my chances."
"Will you? Because from where I'm sitting, your chances look very poor indeed."
Zephyr moves closer, close enough that I can smell the musk of his scales, the metallic scent of old blood. His yellow eyes study my face with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey.
"Last chance, little bird. Accept my protection willingly, or—"
"Or what?"
"Or I take what I want anyway. After all, who's going to stop me?"
His hand reaches out to touch my cheek, and something inside me snaps. Years of carefully controlled rage, of swallowed pride and forced submission, explode into violence.
Before conscious thought can intervene, I'm moving. My hand darts out to snatch the curved dagger from his belt, and in one fluid motion, I drive it between his ribs with all the force I can muster.
His eyes go wide with shock. "You... you actually..."
The blade slides between scales and flesh like it was meant to be there. Hot blood spills over my fingers as he staggers backward, hands clutching at the wound.
"I warned you," I say quietly.
He opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out. Dark, arterial blood that pools on the stone floor as he collapses.
The holding area falls silent. Every conversation stops, every eye turns to stare at the harem girl who just killed a champion gladiator with his own weapon.
Even I'm surprised by what I've done. My hands shake as I stare down at Zephyr's still form, at the blood spreading beneath his body like spilled wine.
I killed him.
Actually killed him.
The thought should horrify me. Should make me sick with guilt and fear.
Instead, I feel... liberated.
"Well," someone observes casually, "that was unexpected."
Slowly, conversations resume. As if a man bleeding out on the floor is nothing more than mild entertainment. Within moments, they've dismissed the incident entirely, returning to their negotiations and power plays.
I'm forgotten again, just another killer in a room full of killers.
With trembling hands, I pull the dagger from Zephyr's chest, wipe the blade clean on his armor, and tuck it into the belt of my silk dress. The weight of it against my hip feels strange but not unwelcome.
When I straighten, my eyes find Ronan across the room—and my blood turns to ice.
A female gladiator leans against the wall beside him, her body language clearly flirtatious. She's beautiful in a hard, dangerous way—olive skin marked with ritual scars, dark hair braided with steel rings, muscles that speak of countless victories.
Everything I'm not.
She says something that makes him laugh—actually laugh—and the sound pierces right through me. When did he ever laugh at anything I said?
"Impressive work, she-wolf," an orc comments, nodding at Zephyr's corpse. "Quick, clean, efficient."
"He shouldn't have touched me."
"No, he shouldn't have. Word of advice—next time, go for the throat. Quicker kill, less mess."
I barely hear him. All my attention is fixed on the woman talking to Ronan, on the way she touches his arm while making some point, on the appreciative way his eyes follow her movements.
The fury that drove me to kill Zephyr pales next to what I feel now. This is something deeper, more primal. A possessiveness I have no right to feel but can't seem to control.
She's offering herself as his partner for the melee. I can see it in her posture, hear it in the cadence of her voice. And worst of all, he seems to be considering it.
My fingers tighten on the dagger's hilt until my knuckles go white.
I've just killed a man for touching me without permission. What would I do to a woman who thinks she can claim what's mine?
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me smile.