Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Robin: Home
The medical bay feels like a prison within a prison. Five days of Evander’s watchful eye, five days of pretending my ribs don’t scream every time I breathe too deep.
“Out.” Evander points at Cas, who’s perched on the edge of my bed for the third time today. “I’ve had enough of you hovering like a mother hen.”
“But—”
“No buts. Robin needs rest, not your constant chatter about arena strategy.”
Cas shoots me an apologetic look before shuffling toward the door. I know he’ll be back within the hour. He always is.
Cas and Marco have been keeping me fully informed on life outside Evander’s room. Marco has continued to train Cas and the other men—Max, Mikhail, Harlan—who are apparently giving Marco a very wide berth since he slaughtered Jason.
Marco killed Jason. Risked the Emperor’s wrath. For me.
He’s mine. He’s claimed me in blood and violence in that arena.
“Ready to go home?” Marco appears in the doorway, still sweaty from training.
Home. The word hits me sideways. When did his villa become that?
I push myself upright. “What? Is Evander finally releasing his prize patient?”
“Don’t push it,” Evander mutters from his desk. “You’re still healing. And really, you shouldn’t start training again for a while, but…”
Marco catches my eye. We’re both thinking exactly the same thing—I have only a handful of days to recover my strength before I fight Harlan. While I’ve been lying here letting my ribs heal, he’s been honing his strength, staying sharp.
Our escorted walk to the villa passes quickly. After not exercising for days, the chance to stretch my legs is blissful. My thigh pulls with each step, the knife wound still tender beneath Evander’s neat stitching, but it’s a dull ache. Before I know it, Marco opens his front door.
A blur of blonde hair launches itself toward me.
“Robin!”
The world stops.
My brain can’t process it. Can’t reconcile the impossible sight of my sister hurtling toward me when I’d accepted I’d never see her again. When I’d been preparing to die in that fucking arena without ever seeing her smile again.
“Esme—”
She slams into me before I can brace myself. Pain explodes through my torso, and I don’t care. I don’t care because she’s real and warm and here, and my arms come around her even as my ribs scream in protest.
My throat closes. My eyes burn.
I thought I’d lost her forever.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” She pulls back, eyes wide with panic. “I forgot—Marco said you were hurt, but I thought—”
“Hey.” I catch her hands, squeeze gently. “I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle, see?” The lie comes easily, even as my ribs throb in protest.
But Esme isn’t looking at my ribs. Her gaze fixes on my head, mouth falling open in horror.
“Your hair!”
My hand goes instinctively to the jagged, uneven mess Jason left behind. Chunks missing here and there, the longest pieces barely brushing my earlobes. Cas adores taking the piss out of it.
“It’s just hair.”
“Just hair?” Esme says, her hand flying to her own. “Robin, you love your hair! Remember when you used to let me braid it? Before you cut it all off?”
Something lodges in my throat. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. Some innocent boy who’d never held a Deathball slick with blood.
“It’ll grow back,” I mumble.
“Maria,” Marco calls. “Could you bring some scissors? And perhaps that hand mirror from my room?”
So we end up in the garden, me sitting cross-legged on the grass while Marco props Maria’s hand mirror against the low stone wall.
His fingers are gentle as they comb through the ragged mess, steadying each section before the scissors whisper through.
Small snippets of blond fall around my knees like snow.
The sun’s warm on my shoulders. Marco’s touch is so careful, it almost lulls me to sleep.
Just like it did in the gym when he combed my hair.
The first time we kissed. It feels like a lifetime ago.
When he finishes, I lean forward to study my reflection. The man staring back is a stranger—sharp cheekbones more pronounced, eyes somehow larger without the frame of longer hair. I look older. Harder.
Marco’s hand lingers at the nape of my neck. “Will you grow it long again?” His voice holds a note of hope.
I roll my eyes. “Because that’s really top of my list of priorities.”
“Hey,” Esme interjects, hands on her hips. “There’s more to my brother than just his looks, you know.”
Marco’s laugh is soft, genuine. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”
I catch his wrist, bring his hand to my lips to press a quick kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll have to grow it long again. Otherwise Matilda—the costume lady,” I add for Esme’s benefit, “will cry about it even more than you two. She’s very particular about her presentation of us.”
The mention of costumes, of the arena, casts a shadow over the moment. Esme’s smile falters slightly. “Robin?” Her voice is small, uncertain. “Will you have to fight again soon?”
“Not for a little while,” I lie, pulling her close despite the protest from my ribs.
She relaxes against me, and I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Of safety. Of everything I’m fighting to protect.
But even as I hold her, I can feel time slipping away like sand through my fingers.
Our garden dinner stretches into evening, warm light from the villa spilling across the table. Maria joins us, and Esme regales us with stories of her time at Madeleine’s house—most involving elaborate schemes to avoid embroidery lessons.
Throughout it all, Marco’s hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing small circles over my knee. Simple touch. Nothing more. But it grounds me in a way I desperately need. Reminds me I’m real, alive, here.
When the last of the wine disappears and Esme starts yawning, Marco announces I need an early night to continue resting.
Esme raises an eyebrow and smirks at that, but thankfully keeps her mouth shut as we excuse ourselves.
Marco’s bedroom overlooks the garden, massive windows offering a view of the sprawling grounds.
I stand at the glass, watching shadows play across the carefully manicured landscape.
Beyond the walls, Victora. The contrast between this sanctuary and the dungeon beneath the arena always feels surreal.
Arms wrap around me from behind, Marco’s chest warm against my back.
“Do you really think I can do it?” The words spill out before I can stop them. “Four more years? Win my freedom, just like you?”
“Yes. With me and Evander by your side.” His breath tickles my ear. “You won’t be alone, Robin. You can do this.”
He has it all figured out, apparently. He explains how Evander will help him see me as much as possible, how he’ll maintain relationships with sponsors for my benefit. Strategic visits, careful planning, a network of support I never imagined.
The future he’s painting—it’s not the one I’d accepted. Not the quick, brutal death I’d been bracing for since the moment they dragged me onto that truck. Four more years sounds like forever, but forever means surviving. Forever means Esme safe. Forever means Marco.
My chest loosens. My shoulders drop. Something unclenches inside me that’s been wound tight for months.
Maybe I’m not going to die here.
The thought hits me again, stronger this time. I’m not going to die here. Esme’s here, safe and whole. Marco’s arms are around me. Cas will be with me every day until next season. That’s over half a year to rest, to heal, to train.
I can do this.
The relief is dizzying. Honey-thick, spreading through my veins like liquid gold.
I twist in his arms, capturing Marco’s mouth with mine.
He tastes like warmth, like wine, like possibility, like futures I’d given up on.
Like a thousand pathways opening up before me, all of them carved by his own beautiful hands.
Because he loves me. Because this man would do anything for me. Because he’s all the world to me.
“I need you,” I whisper against his lips.
“You’re hurt.”
“Make me feel better.”
Marco’s mouth finds the spot just below my ear, kissing up my neck with deliberate slowness. “Only if you promise to let me do all the work.”
“I won’t promise that,” I say, my hand already reaching for his cock, finding him half hard through loose linen pants.
He groans, low and rough. “What do you do to me, birdie?”
I push him back toward the enormous bed, my hands fisted in his shirt. “Everything you want,” I breathe against his mouth.
He stumbles slightly, catching himself against the mattress edge. “Robin—”
“Everything you need.” My teeth find his lower lip, bite gently.
Marco’s resolve crumbles. His hands cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones as he kisses me with desperate hunger. Then he twists us, pushing me down onto the soft mattress, stepping back to undress.
The last golden light of evening streams through the massive windows, turning his skin to bronze.
Every line of muscle stands out in sharp relief—the broad shoulders, the carved chest, the ridged stomach that tapers to narrow hips.
That first day I saw him, in the selection line, I thought he looked like some ancient god of war.
Now, watching him strip away the last barriers between us, I realize I was wrong.
He doesn’t look like a god.
He looks like my god.
Marco moves to the foot of the bed, hands sliding up my calves. “Let me take care of you.”
He slips off my sandals one at a time, pressing kisses to my ankles, the sensitive curve of my feet.
His mouth travels higher, following the line of my leg, and each kiss sends delicious heat scorching through me, shooting straight to my groin.
Impatient, I lift my hips, yet he pulls my shorts down slowly, sensually, until my cock springs free.
I’m already achingly hard, desperate for his touch. Only his touch.