Chapter 13 #2
René has grabbed Marco’s shoulder, pulled him off me. I gasp, stunned, watching as René backs away from him with his hands raised. His eyes dart nervously between Marco and me, clearly expecting to feel Marco’s wrath next for daring to interfere.
René saved me.
René saved me from Marco.
Marco looks dazed. Like he’s waking from a dream. His gaze shifts between René and me, confusion flickering across his features.
While I’m stuck on the floor, sucking in frantic gulps of air, everyone stands around in silence. Even Jason looks concerned—not for me, obviously, but for whatever the hell just happened here.
“We’re going back,” Marco snaps suddenly.
Nobody questions it, even though we’re supposed to be out here all day. He turns and stalks toward the transport van, shoulders rigid. The guards exchange glances before nodding us along.
Cas yanks me to my feet, and, at the back of the line, we trudge after the others. He tries to make me take his arm, but I push him away.
“I’m fine,” I grunt.
But I’m not. I’m not fine.
Because Marco just drowned me and then strangled me half to death.
Marco. He did this. He did this to me.
I touch my throat. Pain shoots through the tender flesh.
My legs wobble. I sink back down to the ground. Cas passes me his water bottle without a word. The guards behind us must have some sympathy because they don’t shout at us to keep moving.
“I’m going to kill him,” I croak. “I’m going to fucking kill him. He just… After… After…”
I trail off. Cas nods. He isn’t going to make me say it.
And I love him for it.
Cas sinks to my level. “Robin, listen to me.” His voice turns deadly serious. He grips both my arms, shakes me. “You kill him. If it comes down to it, you fucking kill him. You hear me? Promise me.”
“I… I promise,” I whisper. I want to believe it. So badly. “I promise, Cas. Of course I will. I’ll kill that bastard.”
Cas slaps my back. “Good man.”
He drags me up once again and pushes me forward.
For the thousandth time, I thank my lucky stars I have Cas.
The ride back feels different. Wrong. Everyone speaks in hushed whispers, glancing at me when they think I’m not looking. Jason keeps his mouth shut for once.
I press my forehead against the cool window and watch the wasteland blur past. The other times we’ve made this trip, I tried to memorize every detail—the crumbling overpass, the cluster of dead trees, the rusted-out truck that marks the halfway point.
Planning escape routes that would never work.
Cataloging landmarks I might never see again.
Now I’m too fucking tired to care.
My throat throbs with each swallow. My shoulder aches where I hit the ground. The taste of stream water still coats my tongue, metallic and foul.
Cas keeps shooting me worried looks. I ignore them all.
When we finally reach the dungeon, I shuffle along with the others, hoping I can slip away to my bunk after my shower. Just need to lie down. Just need to close my eyes and pretend this day never happened.
Marco has the decency to disappear. Fucked back off to his palace, I guess.
Good riddance.
The hot water hits my bruised body like salvation. I stand under the spray longer than usual, letting it wash the mud from my hair, the taste of panic from my mouth. One by one, the others finish and file out. Conversations fade. Footsteps echo down the corridor.
Cas lingers near the entrance, clearly wanting to say something. But he knows me well enough to give me space when I need it. Eventually, even he leaves.
I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the water. The shower room falls silent except for the steady drumming of spray against tile.
That’s when I hear them.
Footsteps. Splashing back toward me.
I peel my eyes open and turn.
It’s him.
“Are you fucking joking?”
The words come out shaking with rage. My hands ball into fists at my sides.
Marco stands at the edge of the shower area, still fully dressed. Water from the steam beads on his dark hair. His eyes are unreadable, that same blank mask he’s worn for days now. The same blank mask he wore after he almost drowned me.
“What do you want now?” My voice comes out hoarse, damaged. “Are you here to finish me off?”
He says nothing. Only steps forward.
The sound of his boots on wet tile echoes through the empty shower room. Each step deliberate.
“Go on, then.” I spread my arms wide, water still streaming down my chest. “Smash my head against the tiles. Or push my face into the water. You’re an expert at that.”
Still nothing. He circles me once again, his dark eyes cataloging every bruise on my body. Every mark he put there.
The moment stretches from one breath to another.
He raises his hand. Slowly. Lifting it toward my neck.
I don’t block him. Don’t flinch. I let him see exactly what he’s done to me.
His fingers brush across the tender flesh where his forearm crushed my windpipe. Light as a feather. Almost gentle.
I hate how my cock jumps to attention at his touch.
Oh, I hate this fucking man.
I shove him hard. He flies backward, slamming into the wall with a wet thud. I’ve got some strength back, apparently. Enough to send him reeling.
Still expressionless. Still that blank, unreadable mask.
“Well?” I demand. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
He blinks once. Slow. “What is there to say?”
I laugh, brittle as glass. I hadn’t expected an apology—not really. But I hadn’t expected this. Whatever this is.
More mind games?
I’ve had enough.
“You’re really something, aren’t you?” Another laugh, darker this time. I step closer, backing him against the wall. “A real piece of work.”
My hands find his chest. Shove him again, harder. His head hits the tile with a dull crack.
He doesn’t fight back. Just stands there like a placid doll, letting me push him around.
This angers me more than his violence did.
“Why did you decide to fuck with me?” I slam my palms against his chest. “Because you’re a psycho freak?” Another shove. “Did you think I’d be an easy target?”
Finally—finally—something flickers behind his eyes. Anger. Heat.
He grabs my wrists, spins us around. We grapple, slipping on the wet tiles, our bodies crashing into lockers and walls. Water sprays everywhere as we fight for position.
I’m stronger than I was an hour ago. Fueled by rage and humiliation. But he’s still Marco, reigning Deathball champion of five years, and although it pains me to admit it, he’s better than me.
For a moment he has me pinned, but I twist hard, using his momentum against him. My shoulder drives into his chest, and suddenly I’m the one slamming him face first against a locker. The metal rings out with the impact.
His cheek presses against the cold surface. I hold him there with my body, trapping him.
“You think you can fuck with me?” I spit the words at him. “I’ll show you.”
My hand finds his hair, dark and wet. I yank his head back hard, exposing the column of his throat.
“You know what?” I tighten my grip on his hair, feel him shiver. “For all your bravado and talk, I bet you love to lose control.”
It’s like I’m possessed. Possessed by rage and violence and lust all twisted together into something I don’t recognize. My free hand traces down his back, over the wet fabric of his tunic.
I slip my hand underneath, fingers finding warm skin. Slide them lower, toward the cleft of his ass.
I pause, waiting for him to stop me.
He doesn’t.
“I bet you’re so tired of always being in control,” I breathe into his ear. “Tired of everyone being afraid of you.”
He remains silent, eyes burrowing into mine, burning pits of fire.
“I bet you want someone who isn’t scared of you. Someone who’ll make you beg.”
Now his eyes flash. “Get your hands off me,” he hisses, though his movements to shove me off come weak.
My eyes catch something in the open locker beside us.
Body oil, cap twisted loose from someone’s hasty exit.
My hand moves without conscious thought, fingers closing around the small bottle while my pulse hammers so loud in my ears it drowns out everything else—reason, consequences, the voice screaming that this is madness.
My other hand finds the waistband of his shorts. The fabric is stupidly thin, and it tears like tissue paper under my grip, falling away as if the universe itself wants this to happen.
Marco tries to wrench free, muscles coiling beneath my touch. I slam him harder against the locker, metal groaning under the impact.
“Stay still,” I command.
The bottle tips in my hand. Oil spills over his skin—more than I intended—half the contents coating him in slick coolness. He hisses as it runs down the curve of his ass, between his legs. The sound sends heat straight to my cock.
My finger finds his entrance. Presses. He’s tight, resistant, but the oil makes everything possible.
I push inside. No warning. No preparation beyond the slick coating between us.
He grunts—a raw sound that echoes off tile walls. Not pain. Something deeper. Hungrier.
When I’ve done this before, with a small handful of select others, I’ve always taken my time with them. Slow and careful touches, gentle strokes, whispered reassurances. I’d make sure my lover was well cared for. Cherished.
Not this time.
This time I’m all violence and need, my finger driving into him with brutal efficiency. Fast. Relentless. Making him feel every thrust.
He writhes against the locker like he’s trying to escape, but his body tells a different story. The way he pushes back despite himself. The sounds caught in his throat—breathless gasps that might be protests if they weren’t so obviously pleasure.
I add a second finger, stretching him wider. He arches, head thrown back, those magnificent tendons standing out in his neck. His hands scrabble against the metal, looking for purchase, for something to hold on to.
“Fuck,” he gasps, the word barely audible.
I twist my fingers inside him, finding that spot that makes his whole body jolt. He nearly loses his footing on the slick tiles.