I will be free.
Chapter eleven
Robin: Wildfire
Time moves all too quickly here. Days blur into one endless cycle of pain and sweat until weeks have flown by. At night, I still dream of the ocean. Of Esme, and everyone else I’ve lost. I wake with my face wet and my throat tight. But when morning comes, I drag myself out of bed. There’s no choice. No escape. Only survival.
Training has been brutal—my body constantly pushed to its limits. As soon as bruises heal, new ones appear. Purple fingerprints around my wrists fade to yellow just as fresh welts bloom across my ribs.
Only a week until the first match. Tomorrow morning, we find out who’s fighting who. It’s all anyone could talk about at breakfast this morning. Fuck, it could be me up first. A week from today, I could be dead.
Marco is driving me crazy. He always seems to punish me the most. If he needs to demonstrate a move, he chooses me. If someone needs an example made of them, it’s me pinned face down in the dirt.
Yet there are other moments too. The way Marco’s eyes follow me during training—not the clinical assessment he gives the others, but something hungrier, more focused. I catch him watching when he thinks I’m not looking, and there’s an intensity there, as hot as the sun.
He’s also started joining us for breakfast. Max mentioned Marco never did that last season—always ate alone in his villa. But now he sits at thehead of our table, silent mostly, but he slides more bread toward me, and constantly checks I’ve attended my appointments with Evander for various injuries and ailments.
Today we started training in the pit, then moved to the gym—mostly empty space with thick mats covering the floor. Equipment lines one wall: parallel bars, wooden posts wrapped in rope, metal rings hanging from chains.
Marco has partnered us all up. Nobody with him. He circles, watching. Judging. Shouting out notes on every mistake.
He’s paired me with Andreas, a wiry man with quick hands and quicker feet. We circle each other, and I feel Marco’s eyes boring into my back. The pressure to impress pounds hot in my blood. And I hate myself for it.
Andreas lunges. I sidestep, grab his wrist, twist hard. He grunts, tries to break free. I drive my knee up toward his stomach. He blocks, but not fast enough. My elbow catches his nose.
Blood streams down his chin.
“Andreas, go sort that out,” Marco calls, half laughing. “Can’t have you dripping all over my mats.”
Andreas stumbles away, cupping his nose.
Marco slides into his place with liquid grace. “Come on then, baby bird. Show me what you’ve got.”
That goddamn name. He knows how much it winds me up, and yet…
I raise my fists. He mirrors me, but there’s something different in his stance. Too relaxed, almost.
I throw a jab. He deflects it easily, his fingers trailing down my forearm as he does. The oddly gentle touch sends fire through my skin, gooseflesh prickling in its wake.
Another punch. This time he steps closer instead of back, his chest nearly brushing mine as he guides my arm past him. His breath is warm against my ear.
“Too predictable.”
I spin, try to catch him off guard with an elbow strike. He catches my arm, spins me back to face him. His hand lingers on my biceps far longer than necessary, thumb pressing against muscle.
My heart hammers violently, brain struggling to keep up with what’s happening.
Because this isn’t sparring. Marco’s not trying to hurt me. Not this time.
I glance at the others—Cas and Max are grappling nearest to us; beyond them, René is tackling Jason. None of them are looking our way.
Marco steps closer. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, smell the sweat on his skin. “Focus, birdie.”
I swing again, but there’s no real force behind it. He deflects, his palm sliding down my chest, fingers splaying across my stomach. The touch scorches through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“What are you doing?” My words come out as a croak.
“What do you mean? We’re sparring. I’m teaching you.” His hand moves to my hip, grip firm but not painful.
