Marco doesn’t even try to dodge. My knuckles connect with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.
Still, he doesn’t move toward the Deathball.
“Fight me!” I scream, throwing another punch. This time he catches my fist mid-swing, his fingers closing around mine with impossibly careful tenderness.
“Marco… please!”
His fingers uncurl from mine slowly, reluctantly. His thumb brushes against my knuckles one last time. He turns and walks toward the Deathball as if he’s walking through deep water. Each step toward the embedded weapon takes an eternity. His shoulders shake with each breath. When his fingers finally close around the handle, the crowd erupts—a thunderous roar of bloodlust and anticipation. They’re ready. Ready to watch him end me.
I scramble away from him, deliberately tripping over my own feet while clutching my chest. My back hits the mast with a bone-jarring thud. The wood groans under the impact, timber protesting against the force, the whole thing shaking. I make a show of crumpling to the ground beside it.
Esme. Esme. Esme. I’m doing this for Esme. And Marco. My brave, beautiful bastard who has survived five years of this. He deserves this. He deserves to be free.
“Robin.” Marco’s voice breaks on my name.
Tears stream down his face, cutting dark tracks against the sun-bronzed skin I’ve kissed, traced with my fingers, memorized in lamplight. The Deathball trembles in his grip—those same hands that have held me so gently, now wrapped around the weapon which must kill me.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.”
He’s only three steps away. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. Close enough to see every detail of his anguish.
The crowd’s roar swells around us, then fades to a buzz. Nothing exists except this moment. Except Marco, falling apart in front of me.
“Baby…” I choke out. All that rage, all that pain—he was just trying to make this possible for himself.
I know,I want to scream at him.I know what I’m asking. I know what it’ll cost you. I’m asking anyway.
The muscles in his arms quiver. His chest heaves with ragged breaths.
“You’re all I have left in the world.”
I know. Oh, how Iknow. But it doesn’t change anything.
His jaw clenches, tendons standing out in his neck. Softly, in Atrean, he whispers, “You’re going to kill me, then go back to that dungeon. And you’re going to survive.”
The commentator shouts something about the champion toying with his prey, drawing out the kill for maximum entertainment.
I shake my head violently, answering him in kind. “No. No, Marco. I can’t kill you.” It’s true. I don’t have it in me. I’d rather die. I’d rather let the Emperor’s guards drag me back to the dungeons and torture me for years than hurt this man. “You need to leave the city with Esme and Maria—they won’t survive the wasteland without you. Please, Marco. I need you to do this for me, my love.”
More tears stream down his face. His whole body shakes.
“Please,” I beg, bringing my hands together in front of my chest. “Please, please.”
Marco lifts the Deathball.
My heart stops. This is it. This is how it ends. Not in some blaze of glory, not fighting to the last breath, but kneeling on a wooden deck while the man I love prepares to cave in my skull.
The irony isn’t lost on me—I’ve spent so long fighting to survive in this world, only to beg for death at the end.
“Te amo, mi amor,” Marco says, his voice so quiet I have to read his lips.I love you, my love.
“Te amo, mi amor,” I say back. My final words.
Marco lifts the Deathball higher, his muscles coiling with power. I won’t close my eyes. I’ll watch Marco’s face until I’m blinded by sharp steel or my own blood.
He’s looking at me, gazing into my eyes with grief and adoration and something that looks like worship. Like I’m something precious he’s about to destroy with his own hands.
You are so brave, my love. Braver than I could ever be. Thank you for doing this. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
