He doesn’t even glance my way. Just heads straight for the largest chest, the one with gold trim, fisting the key.
“Marco!”
Frustration builds within me, but… Marco’s only following our plan. I need to play along, make it all look real for the audience. For the cameras.
I scoop up two more keys from the deck and rush toward the line of chests, choosing one at random, fumbling with the lock.
The first key doesn’t fit. Neither does the second.
The third one slides home with a satisfying click. The chest lid pops open, revealing a short cutlass nestled in red velvet. The blade gleams silver-bright, perfectly balanced in my hand when I lift it.
I turn, expecting to find Marco still testing keys.
Instead, he’s already armed. The cutlass in his grip is massive—easily twice the length of mine, with a basket hilt that covers his entire fist. Professional grade. Champions’ equipment.
Before I have time to blink, he launches himself at me.
“Marco!”
The third time I’ve said his name, but this time, I’m shocked and angry.
The cutlass feels clumsy in my grip compared to the practiced way he holds his weapon. Our blades crash together with a ringing clang that echoes across the deck. The impact sends vibrations up my arm, rattling my teeth, the force nearly tearing the cutlass from my grasp.
“You knew!” he snarls at me.
His next strike comes from the left. I barely get my blade up in time to deflect it, stumbling backward toward the rail.
“What?”
Steel screams against steel as he presses forward, driving me back step by step. His face is a mask of rage I’ve never seen before—not even that first day when I spat in his face.
“Did. You. Know?”
Each word punctuated by another vicious swing. I duck under a slice that would have taken my head off, roll to the side, come up gasping.
“Did I know what?”
The cutlass whistles past my ear. I lunge forward, trying to get inside his reach, but he sidesteps and brings the pommel down hard between my shoulder blades. Pain explodes down my spine. I almost cry. Not from the agony, but from not understanding why he’s doing this.
“You saw them!” His voice cracks with fury. “You saw them slaughter my family, then you lied to my fucking face! For months!”
The words hit me harder than any physical blow. My foot catches on a coil of rope, and I trip, stumbling backward. My legs tangle and I crash to the deck hard, rolling to avoid the blade that buries itself in the wood where my head was a second earlier.
Before I can scramble away, Marco grabs me by the vest and hauls me upright. His strength is terrifying—he lifts me like I weigh nothing and hurls me into the line of chests. Wood splinters under my back. Metal locks and hinges dig into my spine.
He knows my body is still broken.
He clearly doesn’t care.
“Well?”
His cutlass hovers inches from my throat. This close, I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his chest heaves with each breath. His dark eyes burn with betrayal so deep it steals my breath.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Yes, Marco. I saw it.”
“You lying piece of shit!” He steps back, raising the blade. “You let me think—you made me believe they were waiting for me! That I could go back and be with them! And the whole time you knew they were rotting in the fucking ground!”
“I’m sorr—”
