“Smash his face in, Marco.” It’s Jason’s voice.
“End him!” René shouts.
The rest are silent, tense, unsure whether I might actually do it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man in training.
But not Robin.
Not one of my own.
He’s Atrean, true as the sun. I know it in my heart.
“Yield.” My voice is low, and I hate to think there’s a plea in it.
He struggles once, the enormous muscles in his arms straining against me, then he drops, letting all the anger and energy dissipate into the ground beneath us. I hold him a moment longer, his head turned away from me in disgust, then I swing my leg over him, and let him go.
It’s better I turn my back on him, to let him get up with some dignity. He retreats to the water station, washing his face, cooling down, while I slam my hands together to clap the dirt off my binds, taking my place in front of the men again. “For those of you who think you already learned how to fight, forget everything you know. In this arena, there is no fair play. No fine gentleman’s going to take your hand and guide you through the game. No referee’s going to blow a whistle and give your opponent a time out. Every man here will take your eyes out with his bare fingers if you give him half the chance. Got it?”
“Yes, Captain!” yells Jason, getting a few of the others to mumble something similar.
“Alright. Everyone, grab a bat. Season starts in five weeks. Train hard, or die fast.”
Chapter six
Robin: Fresh Hell
Igroan and push my face into the thin pillow, every muscle in my body screaming. The straw scratches against my cheek, smelling of mold and other men’s sweat. Below me, Caspian’s snores rattle through the dormitory like a broken cart wheel.
It’s the early hours of the morning, if I had to guess—the lack of natural light in the dungeon makes things tricky. It won’t be long until it’s time to rise and shine.
Just over a week ago, my mornings were running on the beach at dawn, salt spray stinging my face as my bare feet pounded against wet sand. I’d circle back to find Esme and our neighbors awake, the smell of fish stew drifting from kitchen windows. By midday, I’d be knee-deep in our vegetable patch, dirt caked under my nails, arguing with old Carlos about crop rotation while the sun warmed my shoulders.
Then, Antonio and I would spend hours wrestling on the cliffs, him calling me a cheating bastard every time I got him in a chokehold. Tobias would egg us on from the sidelines, placing bets until we were all laughing too hard to fight. We’d collapse in a heap afterward, sharing whatever food we’d brought, planning raids on the tide pools or listening to Tobias’sendless debate about which of the island girls had the prettiest smile, which we gave him endless shit for.
A week ago, the biggest worry in my life was dragging Esme away from her sketchbooks long enough to practice her fighting stance. She’d sit for hours by the rockpools, charcoal smudged on her fingers, drawing every damn flower and sea anemone she could find. I’d have to physically lift her up and carry her to the training ground, her protests ringing in my ears as she clutched those precious drawings to her chest.
A week ago, whether the winter stores would last until spring felt like the end of the world.
Now this.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the stone ceiling of our cell. My ribs ache where Marco’s knee caught me. Every muscle aches from the grueling workout yesterday, which even exceeded Atrea’s standards. But it’s not the physical pain keeping me awake.
It’s him.
The way he moved yesterday. Like he knew every strike before I threw it. Every block, every counter—he was three steps ahead, reading my body like a map he’d drawn himself. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. I was one of the best on the southern part of the island—our governor, Tomás Verus, told me so numerous times.
“Hit me!”
The memory burns through my chest. How he stood there, calm as morning tide, waiting for my rage to boil over. How he blocked every strike like he was dancing to music only he could hear. The beautiful bastard was toying with me.
But then—that moment. When his knee stopped just short of my face, his fist twisted in my hair, both of us breathing hard. The way his eyes had gone dark when they met mine. The way my gaze had drifted down his thigh, catching sight of the outline beneath his tunic.
Oh, how I’d stared. Like some young boy seeing his first naked body. And he’d noticed. The way his breath had caught. The way something hadshifted in his expression before he’d kicked me into the dirt and called me a shit fighter.
He forced me to tell him my name. Rolled it around on his sharp tongue. Compared me to a baby bird.
But I’ll show him I’m not weak, defenseless prey.
I want to land a punch on that pretty face. Want to wipe away that smug control, make him feel as lost and angry as I do. But more than that—and this is what keeps me staring into the darkness—I want to know why every cell in my body came alive when he pinned me in the sand. Why the weight of him, the heat of his skin through his clothes, sent fire racing through my veins.
