“I’ll send for you,” I tell him. Then I shove the enormous iron doors wide open, letting the scalding sun blind me, bleach him from my view, take him and all the men and all of Victora away for one blissful, too-brief moment.
Until the lot of it falls down on us all over again.
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.
