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Robin’s head was going to explode.
He groaned, and the sound sent a fresh wave of pain thumping through his skull. The room tilted and rocked around him. His skin prickled; too-hot, too-cold.
He didn’t want to know what was in that dart he pulled out of his neck.
Other people moved around the room. A voice wheezed over the tannoy, rattling off nonsensical numbers. Lights reflected off mirrors surrounded with buzzing bulbs.
Dressing room.
They were in a theatre somewhere. It felt like the circus. That shivering anticipation backstage, before he went out to perform. He wished he remembered getting here.
Robin’s head lolled. His temple touched the cool metal of Cyborg’s arm and he breathed a sigh. No blue lights under Cyborg’s metal skin. He was powered down. Star and BB were already gone when Robin woke up. Raven lay on his other side, sprawled on her back, her chest rising and falling slowly. Robin reached out and weaved their fingers together.
‘Stay with me, Rae.’
She didn’t answer.
Robin didn’t remember anyone taking Cyborg away. Only that one second he was there, a solid weight for Robin to lean against, and the next he was gone, and Robin was curled up around Raven, shielding her with his heavy arms.
She shifted under him, and he sat up. Then he saw the man behind her, dragging her out from under him. Raven’s head rolled. Her eyelashes fluttered.
‘Raven …’
He reached up, fighting to draw her back. But he was so heavy.
The man lifted her, and walked out the room.
Robin fell back on the carpet, his head pounding, hating every inch of himself. He closed his eyes.
And then arms were around him, hoisting him up under the armpits and looping around his waist, dragging him stumbling and staggering through dark, dusty corridors. He should fight. He should swing a punch; kick the man’s legs out from under him. But a drill was driving into his skull and he could barely lift his head without vomiting. A curtain flashed past.
White light blazed in his eyes.
‘Our final lot today, the infamous Robin!’ The voice from the tannoy blasted through Robin’s ears, too close now, buzzing through the microphone like enraged bees. ‘The bidding begins at …’
Whatever numbers he rattled off were lost in a sea of bellowing voices. Robin blinked out past the blazing lights, where rows and rows of faceless silhouettes stared up at him. They jumped up; waved their shadowy hands; rolled and rippled like waves on a stormy ocean.
I’m onstage. Robin’s stomach roiled.
It all felt so vague. So distant. Like a half-remembered nightmare.
The man holding him dragged him centre-stage. His grip on Robin loosened and, when Robin didn’t immediately fall, slipped away entirely. Robin blinked out at the audience. He wished he could hear what they were saying. But they seemed to be speaking another language, all in one echoing voice, making noises no one could comprehend. He fumbled for his grapple. If he could just … grapple up into the circle … he could run …
His belt was gone.
Burning heat twisted around Robin’s finger. He lifted his hand—slowly, because it was so, so heavy. A shimmering red string encircled his ring finger. It arced away, up beyond the bright stage lights, into the distant behemoth of the audience.
An audience that fell quiet.
Robin stared at the string. He hadn’t seen it in so long.
He forced his lips to move around one, soundless word.
‘Slade?’
Slade’s voice echoed back, clear and sharp. ‘I have a claim on him.’
The theatre was silent for another few seconds, and then a low rumble gathered, building to a quake, to a roar, to a tsunami. Pain swelled in Robin’s skull. He buried his head in his hands. Knives twisted in his brain. His skull was going to crack.
New hands fell on his shoulders. New, familiar hands.
Robin drew a breath, and Slade’s scent filled his nose.
‘I am his alpha. I have a right to him.’
The voice from the tannoy spoke again, closer and softer. No longer amplified, but speaking right beside him. ‘That’s acceptable.’
Slade touched Robin’s chin. Robin looked up.
‘Slade.’ The word came out low and slurred, echoing in his ears. ‘What’s going on?’
Slade bent down until their faces were level. The cool metal of his mask rested on Robin’s forehead; his hot breath brushed Robin’s mouth. Robin’s apprenticeship was a distant horror story, but familiar shivers crawled up his spine, awakened for the first time in years.
‘The bad guys won.’ Slade was smiling; Robin could hear it in his voice. ‘And lucky you, your alpha is right at the top. You belong to me.’ Slade cupped Robin’s cheek, stroking his thumb just under Robin’s eye. ‘Be a good boy and don’t fight me.’
Robin opened his mouth, but then Slade was gripping him, his fists tight in Robin’s shirt. Robin staggered. Fabric tore. Cold air hit his chest.
‘Slade …’ Robin’s vision blurred.
‘Shh. Relax, Robin.’ Slade’s hands tugged at his cloak; slipped his shirt down over his arms. ‘Just relax.’ He touched his jaw, and something clicked at the corners of his mask. He swung it up, just a little. Enough to show a white beard and a smirking red mouth.
Gloved fingers slid into Robin’s hair, tenderly at first, and then gripping hard enough to hurt. Slade pulled Robin’s head back, baring his throat. Robin twitched. The theatre rocked and spun. Crackles drifted in his vision.
He closed his eyes, and the roar of the audience dulled to a murmur, and then nothing.
The last thing he felt was the sharp, hot pressure of Slade’s teeth closing around his neck.
His muscles ached, then trembled, then went slack.
He passed out.