Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Robin: Scars
The water burns perfect against my shoulders. Hot enough to loosen the knots Marco’s training left behind, hot enough to wash away the forest dirt and the ache in my bones. I press my fingers against my hip where Cas caught me with his pole, purple already blossoming under the skin.
I let the heat soak into every bruise, every cut. I’m the last one to shower, but somehow there’s still hot water left. A miracle I’m not wasting.
Cas was here a minute ago, laughing about how I’d sent him tumbling off that log. I was worried for nothing. He’s still the same easygoing bastard who looked out for me on that truck ride. Still my friend.
For now.
The thought sits cold in my gut. Soon I might have to kill him for real.
The hot water streams down my face, but I can’t wash away what’s coming. In a few weeks, I’ll step into that arena. The crowd will scream. Marco will watch us from the box.
I close my eyes and the image slams into me. Cas on his knees in the sand, blood running from his nose. The Deathball heavy in my hands. His green eyes wide, pleading—not the cocky bastard who jokes about everything, but broken. Scared.
“Robin, please—”
The ball connects with his skull. Crack. His head caves like an eggshell, blood coating my fingers, warm and slick. Those wild curls matted with red and gray matter. His body crumpling forward into the dirt.
The crowd cheers.
I shake my head hard, water flying from my hair.
Fuck. Fuck.
My hands tremble against the stone wall. The shower suddenly feels too hot, the steam choking me. I turn the handle until cold water shocks my skin, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
Because part of me—some sick, twisted part—felt something when I imagined it. Not horror. Not guilt.
Relief.
Relief that it was him on the ground, and not me.
A prickle suddenly crawls down my neck.
Someone’s watching me.
My eyes snap open, expecting Jason’s ugly sneer. Ready for another confrontation, another threat. Another punch.
But it’s not Jason.
Worse.
It’s him.
Marco stands in the doorway, fully clothed in his tunic, eyes fixed on me. On my naked body under the spray.
“Like what you see?” My words are sarcastic, not seductive.
“You know I do.”
The easy honesty in his voice steals my breath for a moment. I laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just hollow sound echoing off wet tile. I turn to face the wall, try to pretend he’s not there.
But my skin burns under his stare.
I brace both hands against the wall, let the water run down my back. Try not to think about how exposed I am. Try not to flex anything he might be looking at.
“Haven’t you tormented me enough today?” The words scrape out of my throat. “Isn’t it someone else’s turn?”
My peaceful alone time is clearly over, so I slam my hand against the water control, cutting off the flow with a sharp metallic click. The air bites at my skin, but I don’t move. Don’t reach for a towel.
I just stand there, facing away from him, water dripping from my hair, controlling my breathing. Waiting.
Because he’s here for a reason. Marco doesn’t do anything without purpose.
Footsteps splash as he circles me. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator studying wounded prey. His gaze burns across every bruise, every scrape, cataloging the damage with keen eyes.
“You did well today,” he tells me, and I don’t react. I’m not going to preen at his praise like a pleased pet. “You’re stronger than most of them. But you probably know that, don’t you?”
His hands hover near my shoulder blade. The space between his fingers and my skin crackles with heat, though he never makes contact. I feel the ghost of those strong hands anyway, the hint of his breath against wet skin.
Desire punches through me against my will. I can’t help imagining those massive hands grabbing my ass, fingers digging into the muscle. Squeezing hard enough to paint even more bruises on my skin. His teeth finding my earlobe, biting down until I gasp.
Fire shoots through my veins.
Fuck. Why did the bastard have to be so beautiful?
“What are you doing?” The words scrape out hoarsely as my body betrays me, blood rushing south, cock twitching despite everything this man has done to me. I beg it to stop its nonsense—getting hard under Marco’s gaze will be the end of me—but dicks rarely listen to logic.
“I’m making sure I know each and every mark on this body of yours.”
I scoff, though my heart goes thump, thump, thump. “So you know where to hit me tomorrow? Make it hurt worse?”
I refuse to look away from the wall. He lifts my chin with a single finger, tilting my head sideways so I meet his gaze.
“So I know if someone else touches you.”
And oh, how the possessiveness in his voice sends another jolt through me. I wish I were repulsed by it. But I’m definitely not.
“Turn around,” he orders, dropping my chin.
Gritting my teeth, I follow his instruction. It’s just as I thought—his eyes flick straight downwards, lingering on my hardening cock.
“That’s not a bruise,” I tell him.
“It certainly isn’t. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to look at it, though.”
I laugh bitterly. The audacity of this man. “En serio… no te puedo creer,” I murmur. Seriously… I can’t believe you.
Something flashes in his expression, and he steps back, putting space between us.
“One word of advice, baby bird.” His voice is now cold, distant. “Be careful making friends here. You need allies, yes. But getting too close to someone? That’s dangerous.”
I know he’s talking about Cas. One of the only good things about this hellhole.
“When it comes to the killing blow, a single moment of hesitation is suicide.”
I open my mouth for some snarky reply, some way to cut back at him. But then I see it—the sadness lurking behind those dark eyes. The weight of whatever he’s carrying.
Fuck. How many friends of his own has he bludgeoned to death?
Marco has been here five years. Five years of this. How much blood has stained his hands? How many faces haunt his dreams at night?
I try to picture it—Marco at nineteen, twenty, probably scared shitless just like me.
Maybe he had a friend like Cas. Maybe he had to choose between his own life and someone he cared about.
Maybe he’s killed a dozen people who mattered to him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but this—this cruel champion who wins every fight, who lives in luxury, and has everything except the thing that matters most.
His freedom.
Silence engulfs us. I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch, see how his shoulders hold all that tension. He’s not the untouchable god everyone thinks he is. He’s just a man who’s survived too much, lost too much.
A man who’s probably a hundred times more broken than any of us.
I find his name slipping from my lips. “Marco…”
Marco’s face shuts down completely. The sadness disappears behind a mask of cool indifference.
He turns on his heel and stalks toward the door.
By the time I’ve dried off, composed myself, and headed into the dining area, everyone else is seated around the long wooden table. It’s only my third dinner here, but the air hums with something different from yesterday. An odd, vibrant energy.
Tonight feels like a celebration.
Marco sits at the head of the table, in his pristine tunic, looking like he belongs in that Emperor’s palace instead of our underground prison.
It’s almost jarring to see him there. Does he dine often with the peasants, rather than eat in the luxury of his villa?
The others all look toward him, hanging on his every word.
Jason is to his left—I suspect this was somehow by Jason’s design.
When Marco sees me arrive, he smiles at me, and for a moment, I falter in my steps, so blinded by the unexpected strength of it. There’s a space open next to Cas—he must have saved it for me.
But there is also a space on Marco’s right.
Marco’s eyes burn into me until I take my place beside him, feeling the collective gaze of the group on me and hating every second of it.
Then Marco shouts, “Guards! The bottles of sparkling wine I ordered?”
My mouth falls open when one brings forward numerous dark glass bottles, condensation beading on their sides.
Wine? That sparkles?
“It’s on you if you’re hungover like dogs tomorrow.” Marco laughs, and the others grin at him like he’s giving them liquid gold, not a glass of wine.
Glasses appear—actual glass, not the chipped ceramic we usually drink from. Marco pours out a generous measure for everyone.
Then we’re toasting, cheering, clinking like this is some grand celebration instead of dinner in a death pit.
“To new friends!” René shouts, raising his flute high.
“To the new season!” Jason calls out.
“To my final season!” Marco declares, and the words create a rippled murmur around the table.
I can’t stop myself staring at Marco’s hazelnut eyes, shining bright with hope.
“Has anyone even won Deathball before?” Harlan asks him.
Marco shakes his head. “I’d be the first ever. The first to survive five seasons.”
Five seasons. Andreas told me earlier that’s the magic number. It’s such a lot. Even the other champions—Jason, René, Max—have years and years ahead of them if they want to get out of here. I can hardly stand to even think about it.
The wine is deliciously sweet on my tongue when I finally take a sip. The sparkle in it fizzes, soon warming my belly. Around me, the others laugh and joke, caught up in Marco’s spell as he chats with them. Cas grins like an idiot, color high in his cheeks.
The servers arrive with platters that make my mouth water.
Whole roast rabbits, golden brown and glistening, their skin crispy and fragrant.
Roasted potatoes with herbs I can’t name.
Carrots glazed with something sweet. Green beans that actually look green, not the wilted gray things my father routinely overcooked on Atrea.