Survival just got even more complicated.
Chapter thirty
Marco: Fracture
It’s a rare morning of pouring rain in Victora, cold and grim. Regardless, I’m at the dungeon before sunrise.
I don’t allow the guards to open the cells until I’ve seen the food delivered to the table directly from the kitchen. Until I’ve inspected everything, and put some aside for Robin.
The rest of them can have a cold breakfast. They don’t even deserve to eat today.
They stumble out, one by one, complaining loudly of their night behind bars until they set eyes on me, seated at the head of their table. Silence takes each one, wide eyes in response to my own gaze eviscerating them.
Jason’s one of the first, and his chest turns in on sight of me. He doesn’t say a word, only slinks to the far end of the table, keeping his eyes down.
René stops when he catches me, then looks back over his shoulder. No doubt at Robin. It’s like the idea slides into place. Robin’s why I’m here. Robin’s why I’m going to stay here. Robin’s why every one of these bastards is going to pay for what happened.
He slides through the doorway with Max’s impatient bump into his shoulder, then Max stills, muttering, “Marco… this is early.”
“Sit down.”
In they file, Robin and Cas last in line.
Robin looks exhausted. He should be sleeping. Healing. The only thing I want in this world is for his head to be resting on my pillow.
When he registers my presence, the worry is instant. I’m not helping his cause of fitting in or not looking like the favorite.
But he is my favorite. And he’s going to feel the full benefit of that from now on.
“Robin, you have an appointment with Evander. He’s busy today, so you’ll have to take your breakfast in there with him.”
I push his plate across the table. And while Robin’s still turning the idea over, Cas moves fast. He snatches it up and shoves it into Robin’s hands, then physically spins him toward Evander’s room.
I think I do like Cas after all.
Cas immediately joins us at the table, even as Robin disappears down the hall, throwing one last questioning look over his shoulder at me.
I wait for the door to click closed.
“Eat.”
Their movements are like treacle. Slowest of all is Jason, examining every piece of food as if I might have come here to poison them all.
If only I could.
I take some bread, tear small chunks from it in an attempt to stay calm.
“There are three more games in the variety rounds,” I begin. “Two of you will die in the quad match. Cas, Val, René, Juan—two of you have only days left alive.”
Cas, the only one who was eating heartily, rests his fork on his plate, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s a shame, then, that all your city walks, your escorted outings to the tavern, your late nights, and your open cells stop here. These walls, the training grounds, are all you’ll ever see again, for the short remainder of your lives.”
“What the fuck?” Harlan spits, slamming a hand down on the table.
“You’re all on lockdown. From here on out. Right through the champions rounds, and until I’m gone. Every ounce of freedom you’ve earned up until today is lost. It will be like the first day you arrived until your death day.”
A communal protest goes up around the table, so I speak over them. “No parties. No meetings with sponsors. You eat, breathe, and shit this room. And if one more of you even thinks about pissing me off…”
