Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Marco: Salt and Sand
It made me sick to leave Robin last night. A nausea only made worse by the three hours the Emperor kept me waiting. Three long hours in his formal lounge, as if I were any other guest. Three long hours that I could have been with Robin.
He had his streetwalker brought in while I sat there, paraded before me. Then he had me sent home via note, delivered by a servant, without looking in on me once.
He’s been doing this for weeks now. Ever since I stood him up that one time. A power play. A reminder of how unimportant and replaceable I am.
Yet he has no idea how preferable I find the arrangement.
I should be scared. I am scared deep down. I know what this means for me, how close to the line I am. Everything I’ve worked for is teetering on that edge, the lot of it ready to drop with one click of his filthy fingers.
He’d have me finish the season, I know it. That’s when he’d get rid of me.
I’m far too popular for public execution. It would be more his style to have me bludgeoned in a back alley somewhere, body thrown down a drain, never to be heard of again.
Yes, it’s dangerous. All of it.
But above every screaming strand of logic left in me, drowning out every other sound and feeling and sight, are those silken threads of spun gold. The silver flash of his eyes. The gilded rise of his shoulders. There, the pomegranate pink of his lips.
All I can think about is Robin.
Even this morning, barely awake in my bed with the first rays of a new dawn, Robin.
Robin’s kisses, hungry and desperate. The way he bit down on my tongue. I can still taste him. I can feel his hand on my cock.
Rolling onto my back, the thick linen sheets brush over my hardening dick, so I shove my hands beneath my head to try to calm it.
I swore to keep away from him. I tried, but these endless weeks of training have been sheer torture. All the time I’ve spent watching him… I’ve hit him, knocked him down, been so cruel.
And every time, he gets back up. Every time, he looks at me with that flash of hatred in his fine eyes.
Fuck, it turns me on.
Then, as soon as I go near another man, the way he watches me… Curiosity? Wanting? Jealousy?
When I touch him, it’s the way he holds himself for me, like he wants to see how far I’ll go.
He has no idea.
Or maybe he does now…
I want him. I want those beautiful muscles I felt yesterday all laid out for me, strapped up while I fuck him, rough. I want that spark in his eyes, the one I saw suspended in the moment just before we kissed. I want to see his face when I take his cock in my mouth for the first time.
My hand drifts down. I’m just as firm as when he touched me.
I wish I could go to the dungeon right now, find him alone in the gym again.
I’d never give him a chance to speak. I’d kiss him twice as hard, let him know how he dominates my mind, how training with him is a blessing and a curse.
How every time I see him, it’s like pure lava is flowing in my veins.
How I’ve wished for this, over and over, just once, for him to put me out of my misery.
My hand strokes over my dick exactly as I imagine his would. A firm, calloused grip, but the grip of a man who knows how to handle cock. Not just his own. A man who was born to take dick deep in that pretty mouth of his.
A moan slips out of me, too loud, hollow in this empty room.
I need the sound of his breath to quiet mine, the taste of him stifling my groans.
He’s fresh air and sea salt. He’s granite and blue sky. He’s Atrea.
Robin’s tongue, tangled with mine. Robin’s teeth on my jaw. Robin biting my nipple hard. Robin’s gorgeous mouth, wide open, and my dick fucking into him.
Fuck. Harder. Faster.
Fuck, he’s taking me so well.
His dark eyes looking up at me, a fist full of that silken hair, and I’d fuck him. Fuck him while his fingers dig into my chest, while he holds on for dear life, tears streaming down his pretty face, and…
A sharp groan rips out of my tight throat, cum spurts all over my abs, bathing the white sheets, and I ride the orgasm out, eyes closed, nothing but Robin. Robin. Robin…
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I get this man out of my mind?
And how can he make me come that hard when he’s not even here?
Fuck.
I do my usual morning workout, then drop by the stadium on the way to the dungeon. They’re starting construction for the first official Deathball match. We haven’t been given the fixtures yet, or told what the first type of battle will be. That’s what they’re going to announce at lunchtime today.
All I can see here is wood and metal, and a lot of the latter. Looks like some kind of scaffold might be built, but when I ask the workmen for details, they tell me they’re just the delivery guys. No one with the plans is here yet.
The sight of it all sets my teeth on edge.
How cruel will it be? How hard to survive? And above all, who will be first to navigate it?
The early Deathball matches are always the new guys—fresh blood to get the crowd riled up for the champions rounds.
Two of the men I’ve spent the last few months of my life training are going to have to try to kill each other. Then again and again, in all of the first eight games. One of them has to succeed, each and every time.
I’m anxious for them, but I’m anxious for me too.
A poor season, poor fighters—all of it reflects badly on me.
And when I’m already losing the Emperor’s goodwill, I’m depending on them to prove I’ve done my work well.
Taught them all the skills, yes. Made them tough enough, physically, of course.
But that I’ve made them fearful enough, that they’re sure what’s going to happen to them if they don’t fight is worse than if they do.
When I finally get to the dungeon, the men are halfway through breakfast. I’ve been coming a lot lately at this time of day. I want to say it’s to give them some kind of camaraderie before they die. To get to know who they were, briefly. And maybe some portion of it is.
But I know, right in the core of me, the main reason I keep arriving early is those stormy eyes that flash on sight of me.
There’s a space next to him, small but noticeable, like he’s moved up tight against Andreas on sight of me to make room.
I can’t take it. Not without the others seeing. Not without putting a mark on his back.
“Marco!” That fuck, Jason, raises his chin in that all-too-familiar way of his.
It makes my skin crawl, but when he shoves Elijah over, I make directly for the spot he’s just created, next to him, opposite Robin.
Robin’s head dips. I’m not even looking at him; it’s only in my peripheral vision that I catch it.
Say hello to everyone else first. Act like he’s not there. Break the bread, make small talk.
“Ready to see the fixtures?”
“Fucking no,” Max responds. “Who do you think’s going down first?”
“I don’t know,” I tell them honestly, trying not to watch Robin stabbing his fork into his meat, movements rigid from the moment I took this seat.
“Come on,” Max probes, like the irritating prick he is. “You’ve got a direct line to the Emperor. You’ve gotta know more than us.”
Robin’s movements slow, color rising to his cheeks.
Jason snaps, “Shut the fuck up, dipshit.”
They all know. They’ve always known.
I don’t understand why I still feel so ashamed.
It’s survival. Nothing more.
“Do you imagine the Emperor sits down and plans the matches himself?” I throw out as calmly as I can manage, the undertone of spite still too perceptible.
“Guess not,” Max mutters, then distracts himself from his embarrassment by pouring out some milk.
Robin’s just pushing the food around his plate now.
He needs to eat. Keep his strength up.
I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself.
I slide my foot from my sandal, then press it against his, beneath the table, safely out of sight. His body freezes in the instant, his fork pausing above an olive. His eyes are slow to rise, and they hit mine with all the force of a tidal wave.
My heart rebounds from the contact, so I shift my gaze to some fruit, reaching for a fig to keep my hands busy.
I slide my toes along the edge of his foot, making sure he knows it’s no accident. He lifts his own to my arch, tickling along it.
My thumbs dig deep into the pink flesh to help me wrestle down the smile.
“Who does decide?” Elijah asks.
Robin slips his toes back down the sensitive skin, a place I haven’t been touched by anyone else in years. A chuckle works its way up my throat, and I look up just long enough to see the grin on his face—fleeting, incredibly alluring—before he lowers his head again.
“He asked you a question.” Jason’s voice hits like a rusty nail in my wrist, especially when I look up and see how intently he’s watching Robin.
Stupid of me.
I wrench my foot back. “What was the question?”
“Who decides?” Elijah asks again. “On the fixtures.”
“The game architects. It’s uh… It’s a draw.
The first round of matches is anyway.” Robin’s foot stretches across again, and I grab the teapot, pouring a cup.
I could pull away. I should pull away. But I like him helping himself to me.
I want him to do it again later. “All you new boys,” I eye them—Robin, Cas, Elijah, Harlan, Valentine, Andreas, those that extend further down the table, “you’ll be up in the first eight rounds.
Survive that, you’ll make it into the variety rounds, then finally, the champions rounds.
From there, as you know, four of us will live to fight next season. ”
“Yes!” Jason makes some sort of grunting celebratory sound next to me, as if he’s already won.
He pats me on the shoulder, once, twice, then decides to leave his hand there, scrunching his fingers into me repeatedly.
Leaning forward, he focuses on Robin. “That means it might eventually be you and me out there, pretty boy.”