Push it down and turn it black. Black and small and hard, where it can’t touch me.
Where all that’s left is me and this promise I made to the man I fell in love with.
Where nothing else exists, and I can’t feel anything.
I’m going to kill Robin.
I’m going to kill the only man I’ve ever loved, and I’m going to do it today.
And there’s not a thing anyone can do to stop it.
Both of us are dead already.
Chapter forty-two
Robin: Don't Hesitate
The raft bobs beneath me like a drunk man’s promise—three planks of rotting wood lashed together with fraying rope. The paddle in my hands weighs nothing, some joke of a tool crudely carved from driftwood.
The arena stretches before me, transformed into a blue expanse dotted with tiny artificial sand islands. To my left, a ship floats, its colossal mast piercing the sky. It almost looks too heavy for the vessel. The Emperor’s blue flag snaps in the wind at the top, proud and vicious.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the commentator’s voice thunders. “I present Robin Shore, and our reigning Deathball Champion, back for one last match, Marco Verus! This match is brought to you by Crown Shipping.”
A white vest hugs my chest, cut low enough to show muscle. Tiny dark blue shorts barely cover my ass. Matilda even painted anchor tattoos on my forearms with makeup, covering my bruises.
The alarm blares across the water—loud, metallic, final.Here we go.
No sign of Marco. Maybe he’s behind the ship, out of sight on another raft. Maybe they’ve got him chained below deck. Either way, I’ll see him soon. Then, as soon as the Deathball drops, he’s going to make it quick. Clean. He promised me that much.
I dip the paddle and push forward. The raft groans but holds. Water slaps against the underside, sending spray across my legs.
BOOM!
The world explodes in smoke and thunder. A cannonball screams past my head, so close I feel the displaced air. It crashes into the water twenty feet behind me, sending up a geyser.
Holy shit.
I force air into my lungs as I paddle harder. They won’t actually hit me, right? That would make for a boring match—a player blown apart before reaching the main event. The crowd wants blood, but they want to see it earned.
BOOM!
This one clips the edge of my raft. Wood splinters fly in every direction, sharp fragments stinging my face and arms. The rope snaps with a wet crack. My makeshift vessel disintegrates beneath me, planks spinning away like broken teeth.
I hit the freezing water hard. It floods my mouth, burns my nose. For a moment I’m under, weightless and blind, then I kick to the surface and break through, gasping.
The ship looms ahead. I start swimming, arms cutting through the manufactured waves.
The commentator’s voice booms across the arena, amplified and theatrical: “Ladies and gentlemen, stay in your seats and do not go near the water’s edge… because it’s time to release… the sharks!”
Sharks?
The crowd roars. I swim faster, every stroke desperate now.
A scream rips through the audience. I can’t tell if they’re cheering for blood or warning me. Are the sharks close? Can they see them from the stands?
I’d rather take a cannonball to the chest than feel teeth sink into my legs. Quick death versus being ripped apart piece by piece while still drowning. No contest.
My shoulders burn with each stroke. The water feels thick, resistant, like swimming through oil. Every shadow beneath the surface could be death circling up from the depths.
