“The fuck?” But he does, flexing his beautiful arms exactly like he needs to.
“And Captain Verus,” the announcer shouts, “demonstrating a keen eye for the man under his firm stewardship. Only seconds later, and Robin would have been toast.”
She’s right. There were seconds in it. Had I picked another man…
“I can’t believe you wore that fucking collar,” I mutter at him, the enormity of what that one choice just did washing over me.
But as if he has no idea that my obsession with him just saved his life, he says only, “Do you like it?”
For the first time since we came out, I meet his eyes. And for the first time ever, that look in them doesn’t scare me. I don’t want to turn away. Even here, in front of thousands of people who want to see us gutted, in front of the Emperor, I only want him in my arms.
He feels like the one safe thing in this world. And his clearly spoken words from last night sing in the back of my mind: ‘It doesn’t matter what you do or say, Marco. I’m yours.’
“I’m glad I found you, birdie.”
“Finally he admits it.”
This fucking guy.
I thoroughly resent the smile he’s pulled out of me. “Shut up and don’t die, alright?”
The moment I drop his arm, as if it were the cue they were waiting on, the ever-present music turns sharp again.
“Where the fuck is that coming from?” Robin’s keen eyes scan the landscape, just as the sick tone sounds.
With it comes a creaking, a rumble beneath our feet, and escalating screams from the crowd.
The trees, the entire forest tilts and sways, sinking, retracting, as the very ground we stand upon breaks apart. Me, Robin, the crosses, we’re all flung back toward the great lizard. The animal snaps another man from a post, its shoulder banging into the arena wall as we slide toward it in a mad scramble.
Robin’s got a hand on the fallen cleaver.
“Don’t kill the lizard,” I warn him.
“I know,” he shouts back. “It’s our best weapon.”
I was going to say it needs to die by Deathball, but his idea is better. Not that I’d tell him as much.
We stumble to our feet, even as the stadium sways beneath us, sand pouring through great holes in the floor. As the forest disappears, so the lay of the land is revealed before us. And so are our attackers. There are more prisoners than we could have imagined, hidden until the obstacles were removed. Some crouching, too scared to fight, some already leveling hate-filled eyes on us, readying their weapons.
But on the far side of them, rising higher as the rest of the props descend, the musician. He’s dressed as a faun, playing his fiddle. And dangling from his little wooden stage—the Deathball.
“We’ve got to kill the fiddler,” Robin says, reading my thoughts.
“Deathball fans,” comes the announcement. “Thanks to Elysium Gardening Supplies, today’s first weapon drop!”
The prisoners are already running for us as we stand back to back, praying whatever it is comes fast. It’s a blur of motion overhead, then athunkon the ground. I grasp for it desperately, my hopes fading as quickly as I get a hold.
One shiny steel pitchfork, one black shovel.
“That’s it?” Robin rasps. “I’m keeping my cleaver.”
“No, you’re not.” I snatch both weapons up, shoving the pitchfork at him. “You’re going to play the game, and you’re going to make captain when I’m gone. Do it.”
“We’re going to die,” he snarls at me.
“Not if you keep them happy.”
His groan is pure frustration, but he throws the cleaver down, raising his pitchfork just in time for it to run deep into the guts of an attacker.
