Chapter 5 #2
The grin slips like so many grains of sand through a drain. There’s a beat of silence, and the men on either side of him take a step away, distancing themselves.
I wait, nothing but the hammering of his heart and the screech of hawks overhead.
Then he steps forward, coming to stand next to me.
“I do have a very nice villa,” I agree. “Enormous. Just for me. Because I didn’t die. Because I played the game. If you’d like a nice villa, just like mine, you’ll play the game too. Now you.” I fix my eyes hard on the beautiful new prisoner. “What did you say your name is?”
He hesitates a moment, gaze flitting to Max, then back to me. “I didn’t.”
Lightning fast, I swing the bat, smashing it into Max’s stomach. He lets out a burst of air on a cry and crumples over. I raise my leg, kick him to the ground, yell at the beauty, “What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes are blown wide in shock, but this is just the start. He’s got to get used to summary violence. I slam the bat into Max’s left side, avoiding the ribs so he won’t be useless for his match. He screams in pain, but I shout louder, “Tell me your name!”
“Robin! Fuck! It’s fucking Robin!” His hand rips into his shining hair. “What are you doing?”
I stamp my boot down on Max’s neck, letting the word settle over me like summer rain. “Robin? Like a little baby bird, Robin?”
He offers me half a shrug and a hard breath of air. “Yes?”
“Right. And you?” I point the bat at the other newcomer.
“Caspian,” he expels at once.
“Great. Nice to meet you both. Everyone give me ten laps.”
Jason’s off first, setting the example and moving carefree like the psychopath he is. The others fall in, except Robin, who stands there staring at me until Caspian rips an arm through his and pulls him away.
Max is struggling to sit up, so I shove the bat against the hollow of his throat and hold him down. Kneeling, I meet his tear-glazed eyes. “Next time you talk about me like that, I’ll break something. Then we’ll see how well you do in the competition.”
He looks like he’s about to raise a hand to the bat, so I push it a little deeper into his neck.
“I’m sorry, Marco. I’m sorry. Please let me train.”
“Twenty laps.”
“I’m sorry.”
Slowly, watching him for any sign of defiance, I allow him to hobble off to lick his wounds.
Better they all know now how this is going to go. And any edge I get here is an edge I’ll have in the arena.
Not that I’m worried about any of them. I’ve killed better men a dozen times over. Victora’s reach is running thin finding fit and healthy men.
Unless they found Atrea.
Robin turns the far end of the field, sand flying beneath his boots, the enormous muscles of his thighs stretching and flexing with every step.
The tunic hits his skin with design, sized with precision for any crowd to be drawn in by the display of aesthetic masculinity.
I’m no more invulnerable than all the rest of them against those fine lines of human perfection, sweat and muscle and tanned skin and strength all laid out there for public consumption.
He must be incredibly strong.
There are wonderful things a man like that could do…
And I can’t let myself think of any of them.
I step away, take a drink of water, wait for them to finish their run. Then I put them through their paces. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, planks, sets and sets and sets. By the time they’re done, the sweat’s rolling off them in rivers, staining the sand with saltwater.
Robin only looks more fuckable. Cheeks lightly flushed, fresh oxygen in his chest and veins, as though this suits him, hard work and hot sun. As though he was born to it.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, ‘?Vienes de la isla del sol y el mar?’ Do you come from the island of the sun and the sea?
But everyone’s eyes and ears are on me, just like they always are.
I can’t afford that slip.
And anyway, unless Atrea’s changed drastically in the last five years, I know how to pull the truth from him without words.
“Combat training. Robin, you’re first.”
He looks at the rest, exchanging another look with Caspian. Some of the guys offer a shrug, and two or three, in particular Jason, direct their anger about it at me.
I’d usually let Jason demonstrate. He’s the most experienced. The keenest. The obvious choice.
I don’t care. This madness has taken me, and I need to know the truth.
Robin squares up to me, and I try to slow the blood hammering through my veins.
Try to look like I don’t care.
Try to look through him.
I raise my eyes to his. Stormy oceans, a billion shining fractals, dancing and sparkling, drowning me.
“Punch me.”
The air sucks clean out of his chest, clean out of the stadium. Robin’s fist curls slowly, held tight by his side, waiting.
Is it a trick? Of course it’s a trick.
“Hit me!”
All the anger I stuck in him yesterday and the day before lashes out through his fist, and he strikes hard, strikes from the hip, twisting his wrist as it comes for the left side of my jaw.
Exactly as expected.
I block it.
Next comes a straight jab, intended for my diaphragm.
I block it.
He’s deep in the drill we both learned from birth, and he’s fast, reliant on it.
He slams a foot down; I step back in time. His other knee rises; I swipe it away with my open palm. He twists, brings his elbow up for my cheekbone. I duck my head back then follow his motion with a countering hand, landing a ringing slap on his cheek.
His composure’s shot, cheek pinkening with the blow and mortification, the others snickering in the background.
His eyes darken, that top lip twisting with hatred.
He starts where he left off. Chin jab. Block. Twist and backwards elbow strike. Parry. He’s off his balance, and I let him take it back, enjoying the drill. I remember every step like it’s an island song. Memories of practicing with my brother on the beach assail me, and I try to push them loose.
Uppercut. Dodge. Strike with his left palm.
Parry. Then, I take the opportunity to land a clean punch to his stomach.
He folds. I kick the back of his knee in, and he’s on the sand.
I grab the back of his head and bring my knee up fast, stopping just short of connecting with his nose, my fist in his hair, both of us breathing hard.
“That’s where I smash your face in. Then I plant the Deathball in your brain. ”
His eyes run up my thigh, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but they seem to linger there a moment, pausing at the edge where the short tunic throws a shadow across the top of my quads.
His lower lip rolls back beneath his teeth, and when our eyes meet, it shoots a season’s worth of adrenaline straight to my cock.
They’re staring. The whole team. They can see the way I’m looking at him.
Like every other lie that slides off my tongue as if it were liquid gold, I tell him loudly, “You’re a shit fighter. I’m actually embarrassed for you.” And I kick him over into the dust.
I make it two steps before I feel the sharp blow on my ankle—I haven’t even hit the ground when I realize what it is.
Robin’s foot. My chest smashes into sand, my ready hands doing little to slow my fall.
I catch a flash of the guards in the distance, armor glinting as they run toward me.
Not fast enough. Robin’s knee smashes down on the back of my calf, driving my foot into the sand.
I feel his pelvis slam into my ass as I try to push myself up.
He rips one arm away from me, twisting it behind my back.
My left fist takes up all the coarse and filthy sand it can hold.
I drop hard on my shoulder, roll, and fling it into his face.
“Fuck!” He doesn’t let go, but the pain in his eyes weakens his grip. I finish the twist, rip my arm free and knock him to the ground, then scramble on top of him, pinning his splayed legs with my shins, holding his wrists above his head as he struggles against me.
“You filthy bastard,” he spits. “That was a dirty move.”
“In Deathball, you play dirty or you die.”
His pelvis stabs up at me in an effort to break free, so I force his legs wider with my shins, holding him so hard I know my boots will leave bruises on his thighs.
“Yield.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yield!”
“Never!”
“Then we’ll stay right here. I’ve got all day.” The guards stand close, weapons at the ready. The men gather around to watch the fight. I have no choice but to win this in front of them.
“Smash his face in, Marco.” It’s Jason’s voice.
“End him!” René shouts.
The rest are silent, tense, unsure whether I might actually do it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man in training.
But not Robin.
Not one of my own.
He’s Atrean, true as the sun. I know it in my heart.
“Yield.” My voice is low, and I hate to think there’s a plea in it.
He struggles once, the enormous muscles in his arms straining against me, then he drops, letting all the anger and energy dissipate into the ground beneath us. I hold him a moment longer, his head turned away from me in disgust, then I swing my leg over him, and let him go.
It’s better I turn my back on him, to let him get up with some dignity.
He retreats to the water station, washing his face, cooling down, while I slam my hands together to clap the dirt off my binds, taking my place in front of the men again.
“For those of you who think you already learned how to fight, forget everything you know. In this arena, there is no fair play. No fine gentleman’s going to take your hand and guide you through the game.
No referee’s going to blow a whistle and give your opponent a time out.
Every man here will take your eyes out with his bare fingers if you give him half the chance. Got it?”
“Yes, Captain!” yells Jason, getting a few of the others to mumble something similar.
“Alright. Everyone, grab a bat. Season starts in five weeks. Train hard, or die fast.”