But that’s all it would have taken.
As soon as I see them, it knocks the sobriety straight back into me.
Valentine, completely motionless. Andreas in the corner, crouching, his head in his palms. Cas pacing, running his hand through his hair, face set and eyes red. Max patting Elijah on the back, René speaking low to him, while they stand around a brand-new poster, right there in the middle of the wall.
I should have been here. I should have been here to tell them.
“Who the fuck posted this?” I yell at the guards. “This is my job. You don’t just stick this to the wall when I’m not here!”
“I’m first,” Andreas mumbles, no doubt mostly to himself. He’s staring off into space like he can see his maker right there, coming for him. “First.”
Cas spins a sharp circle, sighting him with a twenty-yard stare.
Cas and Andreas, match one.
At least it’s not Robin.
The thought strikes me like a knife in the chest.
I can’t think like this. He’s as good as dead. I cannot afford to care about him.
But if I can train him in time…
Train him harder. Make him better. Make him the best.
“Marco, what the fuck?”
“Sorry.” I hadn’t meant to push Max that hard. I just need to see.
My finger stabs into the board.
I. Cas vs. Andreas
II. Robin…
Robin…
The room spins beneath my feet. Heat rises to my skin, aching as though it’s been pushed there by a thousand tiny needles beneath the surface. My lungs feel like they’re in a cage.
Just one full breath…
I haven’t felt like this since… not since my first match was announced.
Movement catches my eye; my head turns.
Robin.
Robin, fresh and beautiful.
Robin’s smile, too sweet. Too soft.
Then gone.
He takes the room in with one sharp glance—the men, the poster—and he doesn’t move another inch. His eyes settle on mine.
“Round two, birdie,” I tell him weakly.
He’s still as a bronze bust for three breathless beats. Then his gaze shifts to Cas, who meets it, shakes his head, and mutters, “Elijah.”
