“You told me all about them! You told me all about how tall Lucas had grown!”
“Mar—”
“You selfish bastard! You lied so I’d take Esme back there for you!”
The accusation is absolutely absurd. Fury boils within me, and I shove off from the broken chests, advancing on him.
“What? You would have gone back anyway—where else would you go?”
Our blades lock at the crossbars. We strain against each other, faces inches apart.
“I lied as a kindness, Marco!” The words tear from my throat. “To give you hope! Something to fight for! Something to live for!”
He breaks the lock with a vicious twist and brings his cutlass around in a wide arc. I throw myself backward, but not fast enough. The tip catches my vest, slicing through fabric and skin. Blood wells up across my ribs.
He cut me. He made me bleed.
The deck tilts under my feet as I retreat. Or maybe that’s shock making the world unstable. Marco stalks after me, his blade weaving patterns in the air between us.
I feint left, then dart right, trying to get behind him. But he reads the move, spins, and suddenly cold steel presses against my throat.
The cutlass edge bites into my skin. One wrong move, one twitch of his wrist, and my jugular opens like a smile.
“You’reallI live for,” he whispers. “You’re all I live for, Robin.”
A thunderousCLANGreverberates through the arena.
On one of the sandy islands, sparks are flying on either side of a massive cannon. The metal beast gleams black and ominous, its mouth gaping wide enough to swallow a man whole. Technicians scramble away fromthe weapon, their tools abandoned as they flee to safety behind protective barriers.
There’s no further warning before it fires.
The explosion splits the air like the world ending. The cannon recoils backward, smoke billowing in thick gray clouds. Something screams through the sky above us—a dark blur moving faster than my eyes can track.
I grab Marco’s arm, yanking him sideways just as the Deathball crashes into the deck where we were standing. The impact sends splinters flying in every direction. The entire ship shudders beneath our feet like a living thing in pain.
The metal sphere embeds itself deep in the planking, buried almost to its equator. Steam rises from the heated metal, hissing where it meets the dampness from my earlier swim. There’s a sheet of metal underneath the wooden deck—reinforcement to keep the Deathball from punching straight through the hull and ending the match before it begins.
It’s still buried in the wood, the spikes gleaming like tiny daggers.
Let’s get this over with.
The crowd’s noise fades to a distant roar in my ears. I’m focused only on the weapon and the man beside me. This is it. The moment we planned. Quick and clean, he promised. No suffering.
But he doesn’t move.
Marco stands frozen, staring at the weapon like it’s a poisonous snake. His hands hang loose at his sides, his cutlass forgotten on the deck behind him.
“What are you doing?” I seethe through gritted teeth. “Marco, what are you doing?”
You promised me this would be quick. You promised!
Very, very, very slowly, he shakes his head at me.
“Go and get it!” I scream, any pretense forgotten. “Go and get that fucking ball, Marco! End this nightmare!”
The crowd is watching Marco’s every move. He’s throwing away five years of long, hard, brutal work.
“You need to do this!” I swing a wild punch at his face, desperation driving my fist forward.
