Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Robin: Wildfire
Time moves all too quickly here. Days blur into one endless cycle of pain and sweat until weeks have flown by.
At night, I still dream of the ocean. Of Esme, and everyone else I’ve lost. I wake with my face wet and my throat tight.
But when morning comes, I drag myself out of bed.
There’s no choice. No escape. Only survival.
Training has been brutal—my body constantly pushed to its limits. As soon as bruises heal, new ones appear. Purple fingerprints around my wrists fade to yellow just as fresh welts bloom across my ribs.
Only a week until the first match. Tomorrow morning, we find out who’s fighting who. It’s all anyone could talk about at breakfast this morning. Fuck, it could be me up first. A week from today, I could be dead.
Marco is driving me crazy. He always seems to punish me the most. If he needs to demonstrate a move, he chooses me. If someone needs an example made of them, it’s me pinned face down in the dirt.
Yet there are other moments too. The way Marco’s eyes follow me during training—not the clinical assessment he gives the others, but something hungrier, more focused. I catch him watching when he thinks I’m not looking, and there’s an intensity there, as hot as the sun.
He’s also started joining us for breakfast. Max mentioned Marco never did that last season—always ate alone in his villa.
But now he sits at the head of our table, silent mostly, but he slides more bread toward me, and constantly checks I’ve attended my appointments with Evander for various injuries and ailments.
Today we started training in the pit, then moved to the gym—mostly empty space with thick mats covering the floor. Equipment lines one wall: parallel bars, wooden posts wrapped in rope, metal rings hanging from chains.
Marco has partnered us all up. Nobody with him. He circles, watching. Judging. Shouting out notes on every mistake.
He’s paired me with Andreas, a wiry man with quick hands and quicker feet. We circle each other, and I feel Marco’s eyes boring into my back. The pressure to impress pounds hot in my blood. And I hate myself for it.
Andreas lunges. I sidestep, grab his wrist, twist hard. He grunts, tries to break free. I drive my knee up toward his stomach. He blocks, but not fast enough. My elbow catches his nose.
Blood streams down his chin.
“Andreas, go sort that out,” Marco calls, half laughing. “Can’t have you dripping all over my mats.”
Andreas stumbles away, cupping his nose.
Marco slides into his place with liquid grace. “Come on then, baby bird. Show me what you’ve got.”
That goddamn name. He knows how much it winds me up, and yet…
I raise my fists. He mirrors me, but there’s something different in his stance. Too relaxed, almost.
I throw a jab. He deflects it easily, his fingers trailing down my forearm as he does. The oddly gentle touch sends fire through my skin, gooseflesh prickling in its wake.
Another punch. This time he steps closer instead of back, his chest nearly brushing mine as he guides my arm past him. His breath is warm against my ear.
“Too predictable.”
I spin, try to catch him off guard with an elbow strike. He catches my arm, spins me back to face him. His hand lingers on my biceps far longer than necessary, thumb pressing against muscle.
My heart hammers violently, brain struggling to keep up with what’s happening.
Because this isn’t sparring. Marco’s not trying to hurt me. Not this time.
I glance at the others—Cas and Max are grappling nearest to us; beyond them, René is tackling Jason. None of them are looking our way.
Marco steps closer. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, smell the sweat on his skin. “Focus, birdie.”
I swing again, but there’s no real force behind it. He deflects, his palm sliding down my chest, fingers splaying across my stomach. The touch scorches through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“What are you doing?” My words come out as a croak.
“What do you mean? We’re sparring. I’m teaching you.” His hand moves to my hip, grip firm but not painful.
He demonstrates a throw. Gentle, controlled. His body presses against mine as he guides me through the motion. Every point of contact sets my nerves on fire.
I should pull away.
Instead, I lean into him.
His breathing changes, becomes heavier. When he adjusts my stance, his hand slides down my thigh, lingers there. I bite back a sound that might have been a moan.
Is this some sort of trick? Some game?
But when I look into his eyes, I see something that makes my stomach drop. The same heat that’s racing through me. The same… confusion.
This isn’t a game.
Then we’re definitely not sparring anymore. We’re dancing around each other, both finding excuses to touch each other in this mad charade we’re playing. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone as he corrects my guard. I let my hand drift across his ribs when I attempt a grapple.
The gym falls away. There’s only him, only this.
He hooks his leg behind mine, sends me stumbling backward. I expect to hit the mat hard, but his hands cushion my fall. He follows me down, catches himself on his forearms.
One arm on either side of my head.
His body hovers above mine, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to see the way his pupils have blown wide.
Stunned, I can only stare at him.
“I win,” he whispers at me. Then he strokes a strand of sweat-slicked hair from my forehead.
I swallow. “You win, Marco.”
Then Marco’s gone. He pushes himself up and away from me like I’ve offended him, crossing to the other side of the gym without looking back.
I lie on the mat, staring up at the stone ceiling. My heart thunders, and the air feels thin, like I can’t quite catch my breath.
What the hell just happened?
“You alright?”
Andreas looms over me, a wad of bloodied cloth pressed to his nose. His voice comes out thick and nasal.
“Yeah.” I sit up slowly, and try to wink at him. “Just taking advantage of your nosebleed with a power nap.”
The session continues. Water break. More sparring. Marco barks orders and corrections, his voice carrying across the gym. I make a show of not looking at him. When he demonstrates a chokehold on Max, I study the wall. When he calls out my name to correct my stance, I fix my eyes on my own feet.
But I feel him watching me. The weight of his gaze presses against my skin.
“Right, that’s enough for today,” Marco shouts finally. “Hit the showers. All of you.”
The others file toward the exit, sweat-soaked and exhausted. Cas nudges my shoulder as he passes.
“Coming?”
“In a minute. I’ll let the queue die down.”
My legs won’t follow them. They feel like lead, rooted to the mat. The gym empties until it’s just me and Marco, the silence hanging between us like a held breath.
For a moment, it seems like he’s going to join the others. Leave me here alone without a backward glance. He takes a step toward the door.
Then he stops. Turns.
Steps toward me instead.
I can’t resist anymore. I have to look at him.
Our eyes meet across the empty gym. My breath catches somewhere in my throat. Those bottomless brown eyes pin me in place, and for a second I’m back on the mat with his weight above me, his breath on my skin.
“Your left shoulder is stiff,” he says. “You’re holding it weirdly.”
I glower at him, even though he’s right. The joint aches like hell—probably from when Cas threw me into the wall yesterday.
“And?”
“You need a cold compress on it. Stay here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he disappears through a side door. It’s only a couple of minutes before he’s back again, compress in one hand, a canvas bag in the other.
I’m confused. I could have just gone and gotten one from Evander myself. But I hold my hand out for it. “Thanks.”
He makes a tutting sound. “Sit down. It’s an awkward angle for you to hold it.”
Sighing, I resign myself to my fate and lower myself onto a mat. The oil lanterns scattered around the room are burning low, casting flickering shadows that dance across the walls.
“Shirt off,” he commands, and I almost make a joke, but the words stick in my throat.
I pull the fabric over my head and toss it aside. The gym’s cool air hits my bare chest, raising bumps across my skin. Marco kneels behind me, and I feel the cold compress settle against my shoulder blade. The ice numbs the ache wonderfully.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
His free hand rests on my other shoulder, thumb tracing small circles against the muscle. His touch burns despite the cold pressed to my other side.
“And… while I’m here.”
I hear him rummaging in the canvas bag, then feel cool oil being drizzled across my back. The scent of eucalyptus fills the air.
His palms spread the oil across my skin, working it into the knots of tension. Strong fingers dig into the muscle, finding every point of pain and working it loose. I bite back a moan as he hits a particularly sore spot.
“You’re very good at that.”
“I was trained young,” he says with a chuckle. His hands never pause in their work, kneading the base of my neck.
His touch explores my skin, mapping every scar and imperfection. When his fingers trail across the tiny birthmark on my left shoulder, they linger there.
“You’ve spent most of your life outside, haven’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your skin, for one. You glow. You’re sun-kissed, with a smattering of freckles.” His fingertips trace lines across my shoulders. “But mainly the way you carry yourself here. Like you’re a caged bird.”
I glance back at him sharply. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Whenever we’re in the pit, you look to the sky as if you wish to take flight. You turn your face to the sun at any opportunity, like you’re trying to remember what warmth feels like. Your body remembers freedom, even if your mind tries to forget it.”