Marco’s fingers brush against the back of my neck, and I freeze, stone still. His touch is gentle, but every nerve ending in my body is awake.
I try to run my own fingers through the mess that is my hair. He’s right—all the rolling around in dirt and sweat hasn’t been kind to it. It’s getting long too. Longer than I like to keep it.
“My sister usually cuts it for me.” The words slip out before I can stop them. The mention of Esme sends a sharp pang through my heart, and I wonder for the millionth time where she is. If she’s safe.
Marco’s hands pause their massage. “How old is she?”
My throat tightens. “She’s thirteen,” I say. “Only thirteen.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His palms rest flat against my shoulder blades, warm and steady.
Then his hand moves to root around in his bag. When it emerges, he’s holding something golden and shiny.
A comb.
A hair comb with delicate teeth that glimmer in the dim light. It’s beautiful—too beautiful for this place. The metal gleams like it’s made of actual gold.
“May I?”
He holds out the comb. There’s something almost vulnerable in the way he asks, like he’s not sure I’ll let him.
I nod, and he moves closer to me, shifting until he’s sitting directly behind me on the mat. His legs bracket mine. Heat radiates from his thighs against my sides.
The first gentle stroke of the comb through my hair makes me shiver. He starts at the ends, easing out the tangles with infinite patience. When he hits a particularly stubborn knot, he doesn’t yank or force it. Instead, his fingers tease it loose first, then follow with the comb.
The comb moves higher, smoothing through the mess near my scalp. His other hand cups the base of my neck, thumb stroking along my hairline. The gentle touch makes my eyes flutter closed.
We sit in silence as he works, the only sounds our breathing and the whisper of the comb through my hair. Each stroke is deliberate, careful. Like he’s savoring the simple intimacy of it. I know I am.
When he reaches a section near my temple, his fingers brush against my ear, and I accidentally lean into the touch.
This is dangerous. Everything about this moment, this closeness, this tenderness—it’s all dangerous as hell.
Marco said it himself—getting close to someone in here is perilous. All too soon, our names could be opposite each other in the fixtures.
But I can’t bring myself to pull away.
“Your hair catches the light,” he whispers. “Like spun gold.”
I close my eyes. A soft sound escapes me—almost like a purr.
“Does this feel so very nice?” Marco asks in a murmur, and I realize I’ve been making little noises every time the comb passes through. Like a kitten being stroked.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I can’t bring myself to care. It feels too good. I’ve never been touched like this. Ever. It’s such a treat. The gentle pressure of his fingers, the rhythmic motion of the comb. My muscles go loose and heavy. Without thinking, I let my head fall back against his chest. Even my eyes are heavy—it’s a battle to keep them open.
“I’m so tired. So fucking tired.”
The words slip out like a confession, and suddenly my throat is closing up. My eyes burn. Fuck, what is wrong with me? It was just hair combing, just a simple touch, but it’s like he’s broken something open inside me.
This is dangerous. I know this is dangerous. Any second now Marco will flip, smash my head into the ground, shout at me for letting my guard down. For being weak.
But I’m too goddamn tired to care. And enjoying this stolen pleasure far too much to bring it to an end…
Marco abandons the comb. His fingers move through my hair in long, slow strokes. Silent. Gentle. Like I’m something precious instead of just another body destined for his arena.
“This place is awful.” The words keep tumbling out, and I can’t stop them. “Fucking awful. And the matches haven’t even started yet. You know, the others seemexcitedfor the fixtures to be posted. But I’m not. I don’t want to know who’ll be the first men to die and have to look into their faces each morning at breakfast.”
More silent stroking. His fingers trail down to my neck, trace the tendons there.
