Wine? Thatsparkles?
“It’s on you if you’re hungover like dogs tomorrow.” Marco laughs, and the others grin at him like he’s giving them liquid gold, not a glass of wine.
Glasses appear—actual glass, not the chipped ceramic we usually drink from. Marco pours out a generous measure for everyone.
Then we’re toasting, cheering, clinking like this is some grand celebration instead of dinner in a death pit.
“To new friends!” René shouts, raising his flute high.
“To the new season!” Jason calls out.
“To my final season!” Marco declares, and the words create a rippled murmur around the table.
I can’t stop myself staring at Marco’s hazelnut eyes, shining bright with hope.
“Has anyone even won Deathball before?” Harlan asks him.
Marco shakes his head. “I’d be the first ever. The first to survive five seasons.”
Five seasons.Andreas told me earlier that’s the magic number. It’s such a lot. Even the other champions—Jason, René, Max—have years and years ahead of them if they want to get out of here. I can hardly stand to even think about it.
The wine is deliciously sweet on my tongue when I finally take a sip. The sparkle in it fizzes, soon warming my belly. Around me, the others laugh and joke, caught up in Marco’s spell as he chats with them. Cas grins like an idiot, color high in his cheeks.
The servers arrive with platters that make my mouth water. Whole roast rabbits, golden brown and glistening, their skin crispy and fragrant. Roasted potatoes with herbs I can’t name. Carrots glazed with something sweet. Green beans that actually look green, not the wilted gray things my father routinely overcooked on Atrea.
We fall on it like wolves. No conversation, just the sounds of knives scraping plates and satisfied groans. I tear into the rabbit meat, juice running down my chin, and I don’t give a damn how I look.
But even as I shovel food into my mouth, I feel his stare burning into me. Those eyes tracking every movement. When I glance up, Marco’s watching me eat like it’s his private entertainment.
A piece of perfectly cooked rabbit appears on my plate. Then another potato, this one with the skin still on and herbs clinging to it.
I look up sharply. Marco’s already turned away, cutting his own meat with deliberate precision. But I saw him do it. Saw his fork dart across the table when the others were distracted.
I shake my head at him. What kind of new game is this? I’m not his pet bird that needs hand feeding. And I’m certainly not going to fall for whatever twisted kindness this is supposed to represent.
This is the same bastard who sliced me open a few hours ago. Who yesterday forced my face into the dirt while the others watched. Who knocked me unconscious back at the selection and left me bleeding in chains.
But here he is, sneaking extra food onto my plate like some concerned mother.
The contradictions make my head spin. Is this part of his strategy? Keep me confused, off balance? Make me grateful so I’ll be easier to manipulate?
I won’t be anyone’s plaything. Especially not his.
I eat what he’s given me anyway. Because I’m hungry, and because wasting good food would be stupid. But I don’t thank him. Don’t even look his way.
The servers return with dessert that stops my fork halfway to my mouth. Apple pie with latticed crust, steam rising from the golden pastry. The scent of cinnamon and brown sugar fills the air, sweet and warm and perfect.
When was the last time I had realpie? Before our parents died, certainly—before we moved to the other side of the island.
I take a bite and nearly groan with pleasure. The apples are soft and sweet, the crust buttery and flaky. Oh, Esme would have died for this pie. She’d have scraped every crumb from the plate, eyes bright with delight. At the thought, the sweet pastry lodges in my throat like clay.
Soon, the plates disappear, and flutes are refilled once more.
The conversation flows easily now, wine loosening tongues and lowering guards. Andreas tells us about the time he tried to milk his neighbor’s bull, thinking it was just a really big cow. Elijah admits he once traded a week’s worth of food for a bottle of whiskey that turned out to be colored water.
“What about you, Robin?” Cas grins over at me. “What’s the stupidest thing you did as a kid?”
I think about it, swirling the sparkling wine in my glass. “Tried to catch a rabbit with my bare hands when I was maybe ten. Thought I could wrestle it to the ground and snap its neck.”
