Her words catch me off guard.
Maria can see it. Everyone can see it.
One crack, and they’ll stick their fingers in and pull me all apart.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
“It’s my last season.” I drop it like a mantra. “Then I’ll be free.”
“Marco…”
“And you’ll come live with me. And I’ll never let you lift a finger again for as long as we live.”
I’ve said these words to her so many times. For years now. And I’m not convinced she believes me any more now than she did when I started. “It’s a lovely dream.” Her smile is both sad and apologetic. I hate it.
“It’s my last season.”
One more squeeze of my arm, then a gentle pat before she pulls away. “Okay, Marco.”
I push off the bench, turning my weary body, every muscle feeling as heavy as the Deathball itself.
Her gentle voice calls over my shoulder, “He had a lot. He should sleep through the night.”
Overwhelming relief, a grief I didn’t realize was so close to the surface, floods me, taking me back to her, pulling her small frame close against my chest. “Thank you.” Her two thin arms wrap around me, embracing me as hard as she can, until I break the hold, take her shoulders, and make her promise, “Don’t risk yourself again. It’s not worth it.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I don’t believe her. And I love her for it.
Leaning down, I drop a goodnight kiss on her cheek, and she whispers, “Next time I’ll stab him in the heart.”
I’m too anxious to laugh, but the smile feels good. It settles me enough to leave her, to go deal with the Emperor.
The debt of thanks I owe Maria wraps my heart in a tight bind as I make my way through to him. It’s never been easy being the Emperor’s favorite. I’ve been through every emotion imaginable through the years. It took a long time to settle on acceptance, but I’ve never been able to put a true shine on it.
I hate him. I hate what I have to do for him. I hate that I’m the one who must initiate our relations, every time, as if this was my idea. As if I actually want him.
It would be one thing to give myself to him. The charade of my enjoyment is another entirely. It wears on me daily, hourly. And it seems the closer I come to being made a free man, the less tolerable the engagement becomes.
He’s not an unattractive man—not on the surface. Mid-fifties, still dark-haired, graying in dignified streaks just above his temples. He’s desirable from a distance. He’s got a strong nose, a cleft chin, and skin thatshows it was never in the sun for more than five minutes before a lackey came running with some shade.
It’s occurred to me more than once how easy this might have been. If he’d been handsome on the inside.
If he weren’t an animal.
If he’d only asked…
But my slave lineup wasn’t like Robin’s. The Emperor was there. He personally selected me. And I’ve been his since that very first day.
I had to work hard for him to let me perform that duty in his place.
Handsome men, strong men, all in a line, marching to their deaths.
At least I can make it fast for the weak ones. At least I can keep men like Robin out of his sight. For a time.
No such luck for me. I was washed, brought to kneel before him, and told how it would be.
Submit or die.
