“Smile,” he hisses in my ear, and lifts my arm into the air.
Chapter twenty
Marco: Autopsy
This is everything I promised myself I wouldn’t do. But Robin’s a compulsion. He has been since that first day. And now I’ve lost control.
The sound of the crowd fades behind me, the blathering of the sponsors still ringing in my ears. My speech was too short, my tone too clipped, my aspect not attractive enough. But I couldn’t think of anything but him.
And now, as I thread my way through these darkening corridors, deep into the belly of the arena, the fear for him comes as thick as the stale air.
That fall he took. The way Elijah landed on him. How much water did he take into his lungs?
We watch men die in the arena, celebrate those who don’t. But little thought is given to what happens to the winners after the match.
They die from their injuries, all too often. They die slow and horrible, none of the mercy of a well-placed blow from the Deathball. They die from internal bleeding, screaming as their insides burst with blood. They die from infection, maybe having a limb taken in the process. And they die from suicide, every blink of their eyes a flash of the horror they wrought with their own two hands.
Hands made to be gentle. Hands made to tend fields and care for families. Hands that were never meant to touch that godforsaken weapon.
The sound of a pained shout echoes down the hall as I approach, and it propels me to a run. Bursting through the entrance, I find him back in the costume room, alone with Evander.
His fingers dig white into his chair as Evander sutures up his thigh.
Both their heads snap over to me, but Robin is slower than Evander. His eyes are wide, harried, not quite seeing. They take a moment to focus on me, for him to realize I’m here.
It’s not the frosty rebuke I was expecting—that I deserve after everything.
His eyes clear, and they stay on me. But he doesn’t say a fucking word.
“How is he?”
Evander’s face hardens against the question, against my presence. He takes a moment to snip the surgical string. “He’ll survive.”
The relief comes too strong in my chest, like a fall, dizzying in its release.
“Could we have a moment?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, crisp across the suffocating space.
The indecision is plain on Evander’s face—to let me do this or not. He looks pointedly over the ravages of Robin’s body, drawing my eyes as if I hadn’t noticed—as if I’m mad for asking. And maybe I am. He needs to be patched up. Fixed. Made whole again. Like every other body on this production line.
But what’s on the outside of him can wait.
“Please,” I ask, the word small and vulnerable. Not the way Evander or anyone else should see me.
Robin’s eyes drift down, and he moves his leg back a little from Evander’s grip.
Evander looks at him long and hard.
“Fine.” He climbs to his feet, letting out a hard breath of air that echoes around the cavernous room. “You have two minutes.”
He leaves his medical case, moves for the door with a warning glare at me.
‘Don’t do this.’
‘You should know better.’
But I don’t. Not anymore. Not after seeing that game.
Robin’s eyes dull as he walks away, his gaze falling to the floor. And I know exactly what he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.
