Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Robin: Collar
The guards escort me through Marco’s entrance hall, their boots echoing against marble floors. The opulence still catches me off guard—crystal chandeliers, furniture that gleams like it’s never been touched.
Marco’s housemaid Maria appears from a side corridor, her keen eyes flicking between the guards and me. Something passes across her face before she drops her gaze and hurries away into the shadows, her bare feet making no sound against the stone.
What does she think of these nighttime meetings? What story does she tell herself about the shackled man her master keeps summoning?
The lead guard hands Marco the key to my chains without a word, pockets whatever coins Marco slips him, and both men disappear back through the entrance. How much does Marco pay for their silence?
Marco stands in the archway, already dressed down from his arena gear, face completely expressionless.
His hair is damp, like he’s just bathed, giving him a wild look.
He leads me past the plush couches where we lay together last time, past the low tables scattered with numerous books.
The dining area stretches before us—polished wood that could seat twenty, though tonight only two glasses and a water jug wait at one end.
“Wine?” Maria’s voice drifts from the doorway.
“No.” Marco’s response comes fast, sharp. “The water’s fine.”
I catch the look that passes between them. She nods and retreats, leaving us alone with nothing but the sound of my chains hitting the floor as Marco unlocks them.
Business meeting. That’s what this is supposed to be. Nothing more.
Fine.
My hands touch the bronze collar still snapped around my neck, metal warm against my fingertips.
Marco reaches toward—
He drops his hand.
“This won’t take long,” he says, by way of explanation.
My face burns, but I sit. Sit down at the table, still collared like a dog.
The polished wood reflects the light, throws shadows.
Marco settles across from me, maintaining distance.
His deep red silk tunic catches the light, makes his skin look golden.
I focus on the water jug instead. On anything but the way his throat moves when he swallows.
“How was dinner?” he asks.
“Fine.”
I accidentally spit the word out, the collar heavy on my neck, and his composure cracks just slightly—a quick glance toward the kitchen, a subtle shift in his shoulders.
“Are you still hungry? I could ask Maria to—”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Marco clears his throat, straightens in his chair. “So. Our match.”
Right to it, then. I lean back, studying his face in the lamplight. “Have you ever competed in a gladiator round before?”
“No.” He pours water into a glass. “I’ve somehow managed to avoid them. But I’ve seen a fair amount by now.”
“Do the men usually survive them?”
Marco’s hand stills on the water jug. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t meet my eyes. Just fills my glass and slides it across the table.
The silence stretches between us, horribly heavy with everything we’re not saying. Finally, he speaks.
“The architects always make them a spectacle.”
I nod. Wait for him to continue.
“They’re usually sword and shield. Sand arena. But the Emperor expects a show.”
“What kind of show?”
“You know. Blood. Drama.” Marco’s fingers drum against the table. “The usual. The worst I’ve seen was three bears.”
My jaw drops open. “Bears? There are no bears left!”
Marco laughs, his lips cracking into an almost-smile. “There are no bears on Atrea.”
“Bears have too much meat on them.” I shake my head, incredulous. “Wastelanders would kill themselves trying to get a piece of them. No way there’s any bears left.”
“The meat on these bears is no good to eat.” Marco’s smile widens at my confusion. “They’re mutants.”
I stare at him. “Mutant bears?”
Marco laughs again, the sound bitter. “God, I forgot just how sheltered we were out there.”
Annoyance flares within me. “We have people get resources from the mainland all the time. I’ve never heard of mutant bears.”
“The chemicals fucked them up.” Marco’s voice turns matter-of-fact. “Made them into these fierce, twisted things. Vicious things. Nothing like the three bears in children’s tales.”
The water tastes metallic in my mouth. I force myself to swallow.
“The gladiators didn’t have a chance,” Marco continues. “Bears ripped their heads clean off. Quickest Deathball match ever recorded.”
I set my glass down hard. “So, if it’s bears again, basically lie down and die?”
Marco nods.
The room feels smaller suddenly. I lean forward, gripping the table edge. “What about if it’s men from Victora prison?”
“Those men are more dangerous than they appear.” Marco’s expression grows serious, calculating. “They look weak, starving—because they are. But they’re also deranged. Desperate.”
I sip my water, waiting.
“They fight like animals,” Marco continues, his voice dropping lower. “No strategy, no technique. Just pure desperation. They’ll claw at your eyes, bite chunks out of you if they get close enough.”
I nod, trying to picture it. Trying to prepare myself.
“The key is distance. Keep them at sword’s length; never let them grapple you. They don’t feel pain the same way we do—starvation does things to the mind. I’ve seen men take fatal wounds and keep fighting until they bled out.”
Marco’s fingers trace patterns on the table as he speaks, sketching invisible battle plans. “They’re fast, though. Faster than you’d think. They promise them food or freedom if they survive.”
“So we stay mobile, keep our distance, pick them off one by one.”
“Exactly. Now, obviously, the worst-case scenario isn’t bears or prisoners.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “What is?”
Marco presses his lips together. “It’s if they bring in infected.”
The infected. I’ve never seen one myself, but every Atrean knows the stories.
The traders who make it back from the mainland often whisper about them around the fire—people who aren’t people anymore.
Creatures with black veins crawling up their necks, minds eaten away by whatever poison still seeps from the old war sites.
They don’t think. Don’t speak. Just hunt and tear and devour anything warm that crosses their path. Including human flesh.
“But Evander would be able to help us, right?” My voice sounds small even to my own ears. “If one of them gets too close?”
I shiver, imagining rotted teeth sinking into my arm, the infection spreading through my blood like liquid fire.
Marco shakes his head slowly. “He might try. But I’ve seen it before.
” His eyes go distant, haunted. “It’s a fate worse than death.
You’re still aware of yourself, at first. Still yourself, watching your body waste away.
Watching it do things you can’t control.
The hunger starts small—just an ache in your belly.
Then it grows. Becomes this gnawing, screaming need that drowns out everything else. ”
“It sounds like a dangerous idea to bring them into the city, just for entertainment,” I say.
“You’d think,” Marco replies. “I first watched a player get infected during my second year. Scratched across the face by one of them. The crowd loved it, of course.” His face twists in disgust. “He lasted nine days. Five days in Evander’s medical bay, begging us to kill him while the infection crawled through his veins like black ink.
Four more days thrashing around in restraints in a cell before Evander finally gave up, and a guard shot him through the head. ”
I marvel at Evander’s stubbornness, this picture of a man who refuses to give up on anyone, keeps fighting even when the odds are hopeless.
Marco’s expression darkens. “Evander just has them shot now. Almost straight away. Learned the hard way that mercy can be cruelty.”
The room falls silent except for the distant sound of Maria moving through the kitchen. Marco stares at his hands, and I can see the fear he’s trying so hard to hide.
He looks up at me, reaches across the table, and grabs my arm. His fingers dig into my skin with desperate intensity.
“I need to ask something of you.” The words come out rushed.
“Of course,” I whisper. As if I’d deny this man anything.
“Robin… if one gets me,” his grip tightens, “kill me. Fast.”
I blink, certain I misheard. “What?”
Marco’s dark eyes bore into mine, and I can see he’s deadly serious.
“They’d love nothing more than to drag me out in front of the crowd, sick as a dog. Have me tear someone apart with my teeth. Put a bullet through my head afterwards. Execute me like a beast.”
I can imagine it. The great champion becoming a monster for the crowd’s entertainment. Marco reduced to something barely human, conscious enough to know what he’s doing but powerless to stop it.
I nod, place my hand over Marco’s, relishing the warmth of his skin. “Okay,” I say. “I won’t let that happen.”
“Thank you, birdie.” Marco holds my gaze for a moment. Then he quickly withdraws his hand, clearing his throat. He glances toward the windows, where the moon battles to be seen in a cloudy sky. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I think that covers all the main points.”
My heart sinks. Maybe I should pretend I’m hungry. Maybe he’ll let me stay a while longer, ask Maria to bring something from the kitchen.
But I’m only hungry for one thing.
I study Marco in the dim light—the dark smudges under his eyes, the tension carved into his shoulders, the set of his jaw. I ache to wrap my arms around him, kiss up his neck, take the pain away just for a moment. For both of us.
Marco gets to his feet, so I do too.
He moves to the side counter where he left my chains, picks them up with deliberate slowness. Each link catches the light as he walks toward me, his dark eyes never leaving mine.
I hold his gaze as he slips the chain through the loop on my collar with a definite, resounding clank. His fingers brush my skin as he runs his hand over the length of chain, checking the weight. A fire races down my spine.