His fingers curl closed on mine.
And I stare at them. Our two hands.
His hand holding mine.
And I wish so badly I could leave it there.
“There isn’t anything I can do,” I whisper.
“Because of him?” The words come fast, as if they were desperate to get out.
“Because of you.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to die, birdie. And I don’t want to kill you. And that makes us…”
He waits, bated breath, a thousand arguments poised on the tip of his tongue.
And all of it so utterly useless against the cold and unstoppable machine that is Deathball.
“You did really well today,” I tell him. “I’m very proud of you.”
He laughs, a bitter, hollow sound, and he lets go of my hand. “Alright, Captain. I guess I’ll see you on the sand, then.”
And even if I want to reply, make some cutting remark, or tell him he’s wrong—that it was the plain truth that I’m desperately proud of him—I don’t say either.
I get up, and I walk away.
And this time I don’t look back.
Chapter twenty-one
Marco: The Ball
It’s been almost two months since I was last alone with Robin. He calls me ‘Captain’ now, every time, every bit as distant as if we’d never touched.
Except we both know the word is laced with poison.
I train him daily, as well as I train the other men, but I don’t go to the dungeon anymore. I don’t join them for dinner or drinks. I don’t attend whatever memorials they hold for their dead. I keep a professional distance from the lot of them.
I keep my distance fromhim. Always.
And it hasn’t done a thing to lessen this searing pain in my chest.
He looks brighter now than even before. The wounds of his battle have healed, the cuts and bruises faded, and his hair’s grown longer, reaching his shoulders, like a halo of gold about his sun-kissed face.
This evening, he’s wearing a thin, short white gown, showing off his legs. His muscular calves are wrapped in gold, vine-like, lacing his sandals almost to his knees. His skin is oiled from head to toe, and he’s glistening like a god.
He doesn’t look at me, only holds his wine glass, barely drinking from it, talking to his teammates as if I don’t exist. Yet every time he turns his head to take in the gorgeous room surrounding us, the light catches the goldenlaurel that crowns his beautiful head, and my eyes are drawn as if they’re on a chain.
Maybe he’s eating better these days, having gotten his match out of the way—having had these last few months to concentrate solely on training, on getting stronger.
He seems determined now, whenever we train, as though he’s accepted his fate, recovered from the blow. Like he’s prepared to fight all the way to the end.
There’s a very good chance that will change when the fixtures for the variety rounds are announced next week.
But not tonight.
Tonight, we’ve come to a ball, held in our honor, at the Emperor’s palace.
These are the men who have made it through the first phase of the season. The early rounds are finished, and eight men have had their bones laid to rest in the sand beyond the city walls. Those eight who remain are now getting their first real taste of what success in this city looks like.
