Chapter 6
Chapter six
Robin: Fresh Hell
Igroan and push my face into the thin pillow, every muscle in my body screaming. The straw scratches against my cheek, smelling of mold and other men’s sweat. Below me, Caspian’s snores rattle through the dormitory like a broken cart wheel.
It’s the early hours of the morning, if I had to guess—the lack of natural light in the dungeon makes things tricky. It won’t be long until it’s time to rise and shine.
Just over a week ago, my mornings were running on the beach at dawn, salt spray stinging my face as my bare feet pounded against wet sand.
I’d circle back to find Esme and our neighbors awake, the smell of fish stew drifting from kitchen windows.
By midday, I’d be knee-deep in our vegetable patch, dirt caked under my nails, arguing with old Carlos about crop rotation while the sun warmed my shoulders.
Then, Antonio and I would spend hours wrestling on the cliffs, him calling me a cheating bastard every time I got him in a chokehold.
Tobias would egg us on from the sidelines, placing bets until we were all laughing too hard to fight.
We’d collapse in a heap afterward, sharing whatever food we’d brought, planning raids on the tide pools or listening to Tobias’s endless debate about which of the island girls had the prettiest smile, which we gave him endless shit for.
A week ago, the biggest worry in my life was dragging Esme away from her sketchbooks long enough to practice her fighting stance.
She’d sit for hours by the rockpools, charcoal smudged on her fingers, drawing every damn flower and sea anemone she could find.
I’d have to physically lift her up and carry her to the training ground, her protests ringing in my ears as she clutched those precious drawings to her chest.
A week ago, whether the winter stores would last until spring felt like the end of the world.
Now this.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the stone ceiling of our cell. My ribs ache where Marco’s knee caught me. Every muscle aches from the grueling workout yesterday, which even exceeded Atrea’s standards. But it’s not the physical pain keeping me awake.
It’s him.
The way he moved yesterday. Like he knew every strike before I threw it.
Every block, every counter—he was three steps ahead, reading my body like a map he’d drawn himself.
I’ve been fighting since I could walk. I was one of the best on the southern part of the island—our governor, Tomás Verus, told me so numerous times.
“Hit me!”
The memory burns through my chest. How he stood there, calm as morning tide, waiting for my rage to boil over. How he blocked every strike like he was dancing to music only he could hear. The beautiful bastard was toying with me.
But then—that moment. When his knee stopped just short of my face, his fist twisted in my hair, both of us breathing hard. The way his eyes had gone dark when they met mine. The way my gaze had drifted down his thigh, catching sight of the outline beneath his tunic.
Oh, how I’d stared. Like some young boy seeing his first naked body. And he’d noticed. The way his breath had caught. The way something had shifted in his expression before he’d kicked me into the dirt and called me a shit fighter.
He forced me to tell him my name. Rolled it around on his sharp tongue. Compared me to a baby bird.
But I’ll show him I’m not weak, defenseless prey.
I want to land a punch on that pretty face.
Want to wipe away that smug control, make him feel as lost and angry as I do.
But more than that—and this is what keeps me staring into the darkness—I want to know why every cell in my body came alive when he pinned me in the sand.
Why the weight of him, the heat of his skin through his clothes, sent fire racing through my veins.
Caspian shifts below me, the bunk creaking. A distant drip echoes somewhere down the corridor. And all I can think about is later, our next training session. About facing Marco again.
About what might happen if he pins me down again, and this time doesn’t let me go.
I twist on the rough mattress, remembering now that moment at Marco’s villa. Him pinning me to the wall, hand around my neck. How I’d felt his hot breath ghost across my cheek when he called me beautiful. How he’d claimed I’d want his cock.
Never, I’d vowed then.
Never, I vow now.
So why is my cock hardening beneath these thin sheets? Why is my brain imagining me falling to my knees, gripping those two glorious thighs with both hands and—
The lights slam on without warning. Harsh white blazes through my eyelids.
A chorus of groans echoes down the corridor. Then, the sounds of men shuffling out of their bunks while cursing, the scraping of the small wooden drawers each of us gets under the bunk beds. Our entire lives reduced to whatever fits in that cramped space.
Caspian’s face fills my vision. He’s standing on his bottom bunk, wild curls sticking up in every direction, grinning down at me like we’re on some camping trip instead of trapped in a death pit.
“I slept like a baby.”
“Fuck off.”
I grab my thin pillow and hurl it at his head. He ducks, laughing, which only makes my mood worse. How he stays this cheerful is beyond me.
Outside our cell, men stumble down the corridor toward the communal washroom, dragging their feet and muttering complaints. I wait until the last of them shuffles by before forcing my ass out of bed.
The stone floor is cold against my bare feet as I cross the room to the one mirror, a thin sliver of cracked glass mounted on the wall.
The crack runs from the top corner down to the center, splitting my reflection in two.
Still, I pull off my shirt and twist this way and that, checking the damage from yesterday’s beating.
My stomach muscles flex as I move, the defined lines of my abdomen catching the harsh light. Six months of harder rations on Atrea have carved away any softness, leaving behind ridged muscle that ripples under tanned skin. Even beaten to hell, my body looks strong. Capable.
But the bruises paint quite a picture.
Purple and yellow marks bloom across my ribs, my shoulders, my arms. A particularly nasty one spreads across my left thigh—the largest of them all, caused by Marco’s boot when he pinned me in the sand. I press my thumb into it, hard enough to make the pain flare bright and immediate.
Marco is a monster, and I won’t forget it.
The washroom is a nightmare of bodies and steam. Nineteen men crammed into a space meant for ten. I wait my turn, watching the water turn gray. When I finally get to a shower, the water is lukewarm at best. I scrub my face and arms anyway, wincing when the soap hits the cut on my cheek.
By the time I make it to the dining area, most of the others have already claimed their spots at the long wooden table. When I see the spread laid out before us, my mouth falls open.
It might not be luxury by Victoran standards, but compared to what we had on Atrea during the leanest months—thin porridge, stale bread, whatever fish we could catch—this looks like a feast.
Massive piles of bread rolls, still warm from the ovens. Thick slabs of butter. Red apples that actually shine. Pitchers of milk—real milk, not the watered-down stuff we’d stretch to last. Slices of pink ham stacked high on platters. And cheese. Actual chunks of yellow cheese, fat and rich looking.
My stomach growls so loud I’m sure half the room hears it.
I grab a wooden plate and pile it high, trying not to look too desperate.
But damn it, I’m still recovering from being starved for days during the journey here.
Caspian waves me over to a spot beside him, opposite Elijah.
His own plate is loaded just as high, and there are crumbs in his short beard.
“Did you hear they’re taking us to the prison later? For a tour?”
I shake my head slowly, remembering what Marco said yesterday about the maggots and rats eating the prisoners alive.
“Sounds fun,” I mutter, tearing off a piece of bread.
Elijah chuckles. “Max was saying it’s supposed to motivate us.” He jerks his head toward the far end of the table, where Max sits with René. “Show us what happens if we step out of line.”
“As if we needed the reminder.”
Max catches my eye, raising his eyebrows at me.
He’s older, over thirty maybe, with thin lips and scars that tell stories.
I’ve gathered that he’s close to Jason, so it’s probable he also doesn’t like me for some unknown reason.
René is younger, built like a tree trunk, and thankfully his smile seems genuine when he raises his cup in my direction.
Jason, sitting across from them, simply glowers. His dark eyes fix on me like I’ve personally offended him by existing. I ignore him and focus on the ham, savoring the salt and fat on my tongue.
“This food, though,” Caspian says around a mouthful of apple. “Makes you wonder what the catch is.”
“The catch is we fight to the death for entertainment.”
“Right. But still.” He gestures at the spread. “Could be worse.”
Before I can tell him exactly how wrong he is, a shadow falls across our table.
“Robin.”
I look up to find Evander standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. The doctor looks annoyed.
“Your check-up appointment. Now.”
“I’m eating.”
“You’re late.”
“I don’t own a watch.”
His eyes narrow. “Move. Now.”
I glance longingly at my half-eaten plate, then at Caspian, who shrugs apologetically. The bread rolls will be gone by the time I get back. So will the cheese.
I follow Evander through the corridor, my stomach growling in anger. “You know,” I say to his back, “for a place that’s going to kill me in a few weeks, the food situation is really adding insult to injury.”
Evander turns. For a second I think he’s going to snap at me—but then his mouth quirks. “You’re complaining about the bread?”
“I’m complaining about not getting to finish the bread.”