The two lock eyes. The change in Robin is fast and catastrophic. The heated glow of him fades to a ghostly pallor, like watching his soul drain out of him. The stormy eyes dull to a faint shadow. His voice comes broken. “Fuck, man. I’m so sorry.”
He’s sorry.
He’ssorry.
This whole fucking situation—all of us slaughtering each other to give the wealthy of this city something to bet on, something to talk about over drinks in the evening.
And he’s sorry.
Elijah says nothing.
Half the man that walked in a few seconds ago, Robin turns to leave.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” The words are out before I can stop them, spoken with all the anger I’ve been keeping under wraps for the last five years.
He glares at me sidelong, as if he doesn’t even know who I am. And that’s the thing. He really has no idea. “I just need a second—”
“Do you think we’ve got all day? I didn’t come over here to watch you cry like a little fucking baby.”
“Marco—”
“It’s ‘Captain’ to you. Now, get your shoes on, and get the fuck out on the sand.”
I can’t stand to even look at him as he shuffles past. Him and all the rest of them. But I feel him, the hot sun and soul of him, and the warmth that fades from the room when he leaves.
Then it’s me and this poster, this bill of death. All these names, a price on every head. Men who were living their lives one day, completely innocent of any wrongdoing, and now, at the whim of people they’ll probably never even meet, here are their execution dates lined up in front of me.
Robin’s not ready.
You don’t apologize to the man you’re about to kill.
You don’t turn weak at the knees when you think about doing it.
If I let him go into battle like this, his humanity will be the death of him.
Which means I have only two weeks to destroy every last shred of it.
Chapter thirteen
Robin: Drowning
The branch whips past my ear as I dodge Cas’s strike. Five hits. First one to land five wins the round.
I duck low and sweep at his legs, but he jumps clear. His reflexes have come a long way.
Five days. Five days since Marco humiliated me in front of everyone, and we’ve barely looked at each other since. Barely spoken. It’s like that moment in the showers never happened—like I imagined the whole damn thing. Imagined the taste of him in my mouth.
I should be relieved. Should be grateful he’s keeping his distance.
Instead, I’m furious.
Cas comes at me again, faster this time. I block his first swing, counter with my own. He twists away.
“That’s it,” he mutters, breathing hard. “Work it out.”
The forest training is supposed to be good for us—real terrain, unpredictable footing, natural obstacles. But all I can think about is how Marco used to watch me constantly during these sessions. How his eyes would track my every movement.
Now? Nothing. In fact, he’s fifty yards away with Elijah, adjusting his stance, correcting his grip, leaning close like he’s sharing some vital secret.
