She stiffens. Looks at me. So I drop my eyes and wait for her to focus back on her brother. “Why are you saying that?”
“Can’t I tell you I love you?”
“I guess,” she says quietly.
“Good. I love you.” He kisses her cheek again, but a little more roughly, a little more playfully, and she laughs, the tension slipping away.
He lets her go then, just walk away to bed to sleep the full night through with no fear of what’s coming for her tomorrow. His miserable eyes watch her go, burning every last vision of her into his heart.
I love Robin.
I knew I loved Robin. But right about now, I think he’s the bravest, strongest, most honorable man there is.
I love him to the ends of the land and back a thousand times over.
And I’m just about to tell him that when the doorbell rings.
He flashes worried eyes up at me, and we listen to the sound of Maria’s steps running through the house.
He’ll have to hide if it’s the Emperor. Even now, after everything, he knows he’ll have to hide.
But seconds later she reappears alone, carrying only a letter, which she hands to me.
A short, hastily scrawled note from Evander.
My heart sinks even deeper as the message sinks in.
“It’s Cas,” I tell him as gently as I can. “Evander doesn’t think he’ll make it through the night.”
Chapter thirty-five
Robin: Coup de Grâce
Iburst through Evander’s door with Marco right behind me, both of us breathing hard from the sprint here. The medical room feels suffocating, thick with the smell of antiseptic and something else—something sour and wrong.
Cas lies motionless on the operating table, his skin pale as moonlight except for the angry red flush across his cheeks. Sweat beads on his forehead.
“How is he?”
Evander doesn’t look up from adjusting the compress. “Worse since you left. I’m sorry, Robin. I thought I had the infection under control, but the fever won’t break.”
Marco steps closer to the table. “Surely you can help him. I’ve seen you reattach limbs, stitch men back together after they should’ve died.”
“I’m doing everything I can.” Evander’s voice carries a weight I’ve never heard before. Defeat.
I reach for Cas’s hand. His fingers burn against mine, but I squeeze them anyway. His eyelids flutter but don’t open. The rise and fall of his chest looks too shallow, too quick. His blanket hides his thigh. Hides what Isaw earlier—flesh mottled purple and red, the wound weeping yellow. Red streaks crawling up toward his hip like poison in his veins.
“You can’t die,” I whisper, leaning close to his ear. “You’ve come too far, survived too much. We need to be together next season, remember? We’re going to make it out of here. Together.”
The lies taste bitter on my tongue. There won’t be a next season for me. Tomorrow, Marco will end it all in the arena, and Cas will be alone here. If he survives.
It’s so unfair. Cas won his match. He earned his place. But infection doesn’t care about victory or courage or the dreams that keep us breathing in this place.
Evander moves around the table, checking Cas’s pulse, adjusting medicines I can’t name. His movements are tired, like he’s been fighting this battle for years.
“You look exhausted,” Marco says, studying Evander’s face.
“I am.” Evander sags against the counter. “I’ve been working around the clock trying to bring his fever down.”
