There. Something dark moves in my peripheral vision.
I don’t look. Looking will slow me down, and slowing down means dying. The ship grows larger, its hull rising from the water like a black wall. Ropes dangle down the side—thick climbing ropes with knots every few feet.
The audience’s shouts intensify. They can see something I can’t. My legs kick harder, churning the water behind me. If there’s a shark down there, I’m basically ringing the dinner bell.
I slam into the hull, grabbing the nearest rope and hauling myself up hand over hand. My arms shake from the swim, muscles screaming.
Don’t look down. Don’t think about what might be waiting if I fall.
Up. Keep going up.
My fingers find the rail. I throw myself over the side and crash onto the deck, chest heaving. The wooden planks feel solid and safe beneath my back. For a moment, I just lie there, letting my heart remember how to beat, letting the water drip from my clothes.
Were there really sharks? Or was it just theatrics to make me panic?
I crawl to the rail on my hands and knees, still catching my breath, and peer over the edge.
Three bull sharks circle below. Thick, muscular bodies cutting through the water with casual menace. Their fins slice the surface, dark and razor-sharp. One breaks away from the group, swimming toward where I was moments ago, jaws opening to reveal rows of very, very sharp teeth.
If I’d been five seconds slower. If I’d slipped from the rope…
I shuffle back from the rail. I can’t fall in. Whatever happens on this ship, I cannot fall back into that water.
The crowd’s noise shifts, becomes expectant. Waiting.
I force myself to my feet, legs unsteady. Fucking hell. My body already feels wrung out, pushed past its limits before the real fight has even begun.
The deck stretches before me, empty except for coiled ropes and rigging. Still no Marco.
Where the hell is he?
Something makes me look up. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe desperation. Above me, hidden behind the massive flag that snaps and billows in the arena wind, a crow’s nest perches at the top of the mast.
And there, completely dry, stands Marco.
His hair isn’t even damp. The white sailor vest fits him perfectly, no water stains or marks. His dark eyes scan the deck below with something that’s almost cold calculation.
For a moment, our eyes lock. His face shows nothing—no recognition, no warmth, no trace of the man who held me last night and told me he’d miss me every second we were apart. I find myself desperately wanting him to smile, just once. Some small acknowledgment. The silence stretches between us across the distance.
Sudden squawking erupts overhead. We both look up as a dozen colorful birds—some kind of parrot—circle above the ship. Shiny objects glint in their claws, catching the arena lights.
Then they let go.
Metal rains down across the deck with sharp, clattering sounds. One object strikes my head hard enough to hurt. I stumble backwards.
A key. Small, brass, warm from the bird’s grip.
Another key smacks into Marco’s open palm. He examines it briefly, then his gaze shifts to something behind me.
I turn. A line of wooden chests runs along the ship’s rail, each one different—some small and plain, others large with ornate metalwork. Gold trim gleams on the biggest one.
The crowd probably thinks I’ve lost my mind because I make no move toward the chests, just stand here watching Marco finally begin to descend the rigging. Hand over hand, smooth and practiced. The oversized and unstable mast, hastily erected for the show, shakes precariously with everymovement. When he reaches the bottom section, he simply jumps—a drop that would break most men’s ankles.
He lands in a crouch, absorbing the impact effortlessly. Muscle memory from years of arena training. And of course, the crowd cheers his theatrical display of athleticism.
Even from across the deck, he looks magnificent. The white vest clings to the broad line of his shoulders, shows off the bronze of his arms. There’s not a dark hair out of place—curls fall across his forehead in waves.
“Marco!”
