Arms wrap around me from behind, Marco’s chest warm against my back.
“Do you really think I can do it?” The words spill out before I can stop them. “Four more years? Win my freedom, just like you?”
“Yes. With me and Evander by your side.” His breath tickles my ear. “You won’t be alone, Robin. You can do this.”
He has it all figured out, apparently. He explains how Evander will help him see me as much as possible, how he’ll maintain relationships with sponsors for my benefit. Strategic visits, careful planning, a network of support I never imagined.
The future he’s painting—it’s not the one I’d accepted. Not the quick, brutal death I’d been bracing for since the moment they dragged me onto that truck. Four more years sounds like forever, but forever meanssurviving. Forever means Esme safe. Forever means Marco.
My chest loosens. My shoulders drop. Something unclenches inside me that’s been wound tight for months.
Maybe I’m not going to die here.
The thought hits me again, stronger this time. I’mnotgoing to die here. Esme’s here, safe and whole. Marco’s arms are around me. Cas will be with me every day until next season. That’s over half a year to rest, to heal, to train.
I can do this.
The relief is dizzying. Honey-thick, spreading through my veins like liquid gold.
I twist in his arms, capturing Marco’s mouth with mine. He tastes like warmth, like wine, like possibility, like futures I’d given up on. Like a thousand pathways opening up before me, all of them carved by his own beautiful hands. Because he loves me. Because this man would do anything for me. Because he’s all the world to me.
“I need you,” I whisper against his lips.
“You’re hurt.”
“Make me feel better.”
Marco’s mouth finds the spot just below my ear, kissing up my neck with deliberate slowness. “Only if you promise to let me do all the work.”
“I won’t promise that,” I say, my hand already reaching for his cock, finding him half hard through loose linen pants.
He groans, low and rough. “What do you do to me, birdie?”
I push him back toward the enormous bed, my hands fisted in his shirt. “Everything you want,” I breathe against his mouth.
He stumbles slightly, catching himself against the mattress edge. “Robin—”
“Everything you need.” My teeth find his lower lip, bite gently.
Marco’s resolve crumbles. His hands cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones as he kisses me with desperate hunger. Then he twists us, pushing me down onto the soft mattress, stepping back to undress.
The last golden light of evening streams through the massive windows, turning his skin to bronze. Every line of muscle stands out in sharp relief—the broad shoulders, the carved chest, the ridged stomach that tapers to narrow hips. That first day I saw him, in the selection line, I thought he looked like some ancient god of war. Now, watching him strip away the last barriers between us, I realize I was wrong.
He doesn’t look like a god.
He looks likemygod.
Marco moves to the foot of the bed, hands sliding up my calves. “Let me take care of you.”
He slips off my sandals one at a time, pressing kisses to my ankles, the sensitive curve of my feet. His mouth travels higher, following the line of my leg, and each kiss sends delicious heat scorching through me, shooting straight to my groin. Impatient, I lift my hips, yet he pulls my shorts down slowly, sensually, until my cock springs free. I’m already achingly hard, desperate for his touch. Only his touch.
Marco’s tongue traces the length of me, base to tip, and my back bows off the mattress. A sound rips from my throat—shredded, desperate. He takes his time, mapping every ridge and vein with his mouth until tremors run through my legs.
“Easy,” he murmurs, positioning me carefully with my head on a pillow, treating me like I’m made of spun glass. “Just let me—”
“Marco,” I snap, “I have to beat a man to death injust over a week.”
His hands still on my skin. “So you need to save your energy, birdie.”
