She slams into me before I can brace myself. Pain explodes through my torso, and I don’t care. I don’t care because she’s real and warm andhere, and my arms come around her even as my ribs scream in protest.
My throat closes. My eyes burn.
I thought I’d lost her forever.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” She pulls back, eyes wide with panic. “I forgot—Marco said you were hurt, but I thought—”
“Hey.” I catch her hands, squeeze gently. “I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle, see?” The lie comes easily, even as my ribs throb in protest.
But Esme isn’t looking at my ribs. Her gaze fixes on my head, mouth falling open in horror.
“Your hair!”
My hand goes instinctively to the jagged, uneven mess Jason left behind. Chunks missing here and there, the longest pieces barely brushing my earlobes. Cas adores taking the piss out of it.
“It’s just hair.”
“Just hair?” Esme says, her hand flying to her own. “Robin, you love your hair! Remember when you used to let me braid it? Before you cut it all off?”
Something lodges in my throat. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. Some innocent boy who’d never held a Deathball slick with blood.
“It’ll grow back,” I mumble.
“Maria,” Marco calls. “Could you bring some scissors? And perhaps that hand mirror from my room?”
So we end up in the garden, me sitting cross-legged on the grass while Marco props Maria’s hand mirror against the low stone wall.
His fingers are gentle as they comb through the ragged mess, steadying each section before the scissors whisper through. Small snippets of blond fall around my knees like snow. The sun’s warm on my shoulders. Marco’s touch is so careful, it almost lulls me to sleep. Just like it did in the gym when he combed my hair. The first time we kissed. It feels like a lifetime ago.
When he finishes, I lean forward to study my reflection. The man staring back is a stranger—sharp cheekbones more pronounced, eyes somehow larger without the frame of longer hair. I look older. Harder.
Marco’s hand lingers at the nape of my neck. “Will you grow it long again?” His voice holds a note of hope.
I roll my eyes. “Because that’s really top of my list of priorities.”
“Hey,” Esme interjects, hands on her hips. “There’s more to my brother than just his looks, you know.”
Marco’s laugh is soft, genuine. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”
I catch his wrist, bring his hand to my lips to press a quick kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll have to grow it long again. Otherwise Matilda—the costumelady,” I add for Esme’s benefit, “will cry about it even more than you two. She’s very particular about her presentation of us.”
The mention of costumes, of the arena, casts a shadow over the moment. Esme’s smile falters slightly. “Robin?” Her voice is small, uncertain. “Will you have to fight again soon?”
“Not for a little while,” I lie, pulling her close despite the protest from my ribs.
She relaxes against me, and I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Of safety. Of everything I’m fighting to protect.
But even as I hold her, I can feel time slipping away like sand through my fingers.
Our garden dinner stretches into evening, warm light from the villa spilling across the table. Maria joins us, and Esme regales us with stories of her time at Madeleine’s house—most involving elaborate schemes to avoid embroidery lessons.
Throughout it all, Marco’s hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing small circles over my knee. Simple touch. Nothing more. But it grounds me in a way I desperately need. Reminds me I’m real, alive, here.
When the last of the wine disappears and Esme starts yawning, Marco announces I need an early night to continue resting.
Esme raises an eyebrow and smirks at that, but thankfully keeps her mouth shut as we excuse ourselves.
Marco’s bedroom overlooks the garden, massive windows offering a view of the sprawling grounds. I stand at the glass, watching shadows play across the carefully manicured landscape. Beyond the walls, Victora. The contrast between this sanctuary and the dungeon beneath the arena always feels surreal.
