12. Cruz
CRUZ
Robin doesn’t flinch. Not a bit.
I hate this.
Every step I take toward her feels wrong. But I keep going anyway because that’s what I do. Because that’s what I’ve always done.
Follow orders.
Even when they rot something inside me.
“I meant what I said,” she tells me, her voice rough but steady. “You’re not doing this without a fight.”
Admiration flicks through me. She’s exhausted. Dehydrated. She shouldn’t have anything left in her.
But still she’s ready to fight.
What would she be like outside in the world? Not locked up and at my mercy?
I’ve always wanted kids.
And Robin… She’d be a good mother. Firm. Unyielding when she needs to be. But not cruel. Not like the men in this place. She’d know where the line is. She’d make them behave without breaking them.
Like my mother did.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Her voice cuts through my thought, and I blink. I shake off the dread I’m feeling, burying it where it belongs.
“Get up,” I say.
“Make me,” she shoots back.
I step closer.
If I do this fast enough, I can keep it contained. Control the damage. Get her restrained without—
Without what?
Without hurting her?
That’s already out the window.
She’s going to get hurt. But if I’m in control, I can minimize it.
I reach for her wrist. When I close my fingers around it, she moves, raking her nails across my skin before I can adjust.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tightening my grip.
She twists, trying to pull free. With her other hand, she swings, catching my shoulder, not hard enough to do real damage but enough to throw me off balance for a second.
“Stop it,” I snap.
“Not happening.”
She’s breathing harder now, but there’s no hesitation in her. No fear slowing her down. Just pure, stubborn defiance.
I try to catch her other wrist, but she jerks away and sinks her teeth into my forearm.
Hard.
“Shit!”
Pain flares. I yank my arm back instinctively, and she uses the momentum to twist again, trying to get out from under me.
Fine.
No more half measures.
I grab both of her wrists this time, using my weight to force her backward. She struggles, kicking, arching, trying to throw me off.
She’s stronger than she looks. But she’s exhausted, and I’m not.
I push her down onto the bed, pinning her wrists above her head, using my own body weight to keep her from twisting free.
“Let me go,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Stop fighting,” I tell her.
“No.” Her eyes lock on to mine.
They’re so dark and deep. Alive in a way that doesn’t belong in a place like this. And something else too, layered beneath her anger. Something older.
She’s seen things.
Lived through things.
Not just this.
And for that split second, I forget what I’m doing.
Forget where we are.
Forget who I am in this moment.
She takes advantage.
She twists beneath me, hips shifting, shoulders angling. One of her wrists slips free, and she shoves against me, scrambling to get out from under me.
“Damn it—” I catch her again before she can get off the bed and drag her back, this time locking her arms tighter.
She fights again, but it’s weaker this time. Slower. Her body is starting to give out even if her mind isn’t.
“Stop,” I say again, quieter this time.
I pin her arms, reach for the restraints, and secure one wrist to the frame. Then the other.
She moves frantically, trying to pull against the bindings, but it does no good.
I secure her ankles next, ignoring her jerks and twists, her rapid breathing.
I step back.
Robin turns her head slightly, looking at me, her expression a mix of fury and something else I can’t identify.
I drag a hand down my face, try to steady myself.
And that’s when I realize it.
I’m hard. Fucking hard as a rock.