“Where’s Robin?” Ten minutes to battle time and I haven’t laid eyes on him. Not once since he kissed me last night. Kissed me, then walked out like he owns me.
“Robin?” Matilda frowns like she thinks I should know. “I finished with him an hour ago. He’s on the far side.”
“Of course.” Of course he’s coming in a different entrance. Of course we’re not walking in together, ready to fight. Of course I’m not supposed to know anything about it.
I’m just a player. All my special privileges have gone out the window, and I’ve been bumped back down to nothing, just flesh and muscle, expendable and inconsequential.
She pulls a leather strap tight against my skin, and I wince slightly as she affixes it. It’s all the armor I’m getting by the looks of it. One thin slice of leather that stretches from my shoulder, running diagonally down beneath my left pec. Up on my shoulder, a small harness is attached to it, which I hope means I’m going to get some kind of weapon to store in it.
I also have one very short leather skirt. It rides so low on my hips it’s barely decent, and while I appreciate the movement the dangling leatherstrips will allow me, it’s hiding so little I’m not sure why they’ve bothered to put it on me at all. Well, besides the fact it does look fantastic.
Each wrist has a flimsy cuff that’s entirely for show. They’re malleable enough, but only there to pull more attention to my arms, which Matilda’s begun dusting with a golden shimmer.
Beyond these flimsy decorations, it’s all skin, every inch of me on display like I’m the ticket item in a butcher’s shop window. Strange the way they want to admire my appearance, when all this muscle has been built with ugliness in mind.
“Look up,” Matilda commands.
Eyes on the ceiling, I stay as patient as I can while she paints a second layer of mascara on. “Does Robin have more armor than me?”
She laughs as she smudges my thick eyeliner wider with her thumb. “Even less.”
“How is it possible to have less?” I drop my gaze to catch hers, and she frowns at me.
Her fingertips tap the bottom of my chin to push my face back up, while her other hand swishes back and forth drying my mascara, which I’m pretty sure is already dry. “Don’t worry. He’s actually taking an interest in his costume this time, and had a few suggestions to make. He looks incredible.”
“Wasn’t what I was worried about, actually.”
“Lips.”
“Again?”
“Marco!”
I purse them for her to smear some gold gloss down the center.
“You look beautiful,” she tells me, stepping back to assess her work. “I’d hate for you to die.” A little sigh slips from her. “No one else wears the gold like you.”
“Thank you so much, Matilda.”
Whatever she’s about to say is drowned out by the roar of the crowd, sharp and sudden. Thousands of feet pound the floor in a rhythm so loud the whole arena seems to shake.
It feels as if…
As if they’ve started the game already.
As if Robin’s already out there. Alone.
My feet move faster than logical thought. The guards that waited for me flank me immediately, falling in as quickly and easily as if they’d expected this.
There hasn’t been an announcement, not a word. A sheen of sweat breaks out, sending a sickly chill through my body when the breeze sweeps down the hot corridor from the arena gates.
This is it. It’s already started.
A few men are in their places, waiting to haul the thick portcullis open for me. I can barely make anything out with the blinding light. Only green. Trees and trees and glaring white sand surrounding them.
The weaponsman steps out from my right, holds open a flat palm, and presents a small gold key.
I snatch it up. “And what am I fighting with?”
