His brow lowers at me, that flash of angry distrust in his brilliant eyes, but I hold on to his chin, turning his face to see the wound better. “Who gave you that?”
His lips part slowly, then close.
It’s not a difficult question. It feels like he’s weighing his answer.
“Probablyyou.”
“I didn’t give you that bruise.” He can be as pissed at me as he likes for yesterday’s training session. I hit him where I needed to—I had to keep him on his toes. I wouldn’t have touched his face, now that I know he’s one of mine. And especially knowing that a face as beautiful as his could garner him enough sponsorship to actually survive this season.
His tongue darts over his lips, and for the second time in two days, I realize there’s an intimacy in my touch—one that shouldn’t be there. Too soft, too close.
I shove his face away, hard, watching the enormous muscles in his neck flex as he counters the movement.
He moves past me without another word, making for the bus.
The creeping shiver of hateful, jealous eyes curls down my spine.
Jason, watching my every move.
That motherfucker.
I swear, if he touches a hair on Robin’s head…
Fuck.
What am I thinking?
Robin’s going to die. Just like the rest of them.
He’ll be dead in a month.
Get your head in the game.
No friends.
No favorites.
Only survival.
Only returning home.
The training ground is a short distance from the prison, and I’m regretting that I gave them the luxury of a bus ride. I should have made them run instead. Sympathy won’t get any of us through the season.
We pull up at the edge of Victora’s man-made forest, an oasis in a barren land. It’s cool, green, looks spectacular. But half the trees and logs here are fake, artfully crafted to appear just-fallen, moss and mold coaxed to their surface with goat’s milk. They’re designed to look like the trees of the before times, which exist for us now only in myths and ancient artworks, beauties the Emperor’s palace is full of. They were huge things, lush and verdant. It’s hard to believe they were ever real.
The air is cooler here, the living trees growing strong among the artificial, fresh water from sacked cities rerouted to nourish this folly. It will make the workout easier than it would have been down in the pit. But that’s not the main reason we’re here.
The second they’re off the bus, it’s fifty push-ups on gravel. I get down and do it with them. Rocks bite sharp into my palms, but I know that will help me dissociate later. If you can do that here, now, when things are calm, you can do it in the arena.
Practice is all about pushing through pain. Seeing yourself cut and bleeding and learning to ignore it. Knowing that it will heal, that scars are inevitable. When you’re worrying about all those things during a game, you’re leaving yourself open. You can’t afford that in Deathball, not once. One slip, and you’re lucky if the other guy finishes you fast, doesn’t string it out to entertain the crowd.
Because they do.
They all want the sponsors, the fans. They all want the Emperor in their palm.
They all want my place.
And they’d do anything to take it from me.
