Marco fires again. Too high. Then again—wide right. The van’s movement makes it impossible. His inexperience makes it worse.
Two rounds left.
Then only one.
I watch the tension coil through Marco’s shoulders, see his jaw clench with each failed shot. The weight of it—Kane Bishop right there, the bastard who slit his family’s throats, and Marco can’t land a hit.
The quad bike is moments away from reaching us. They’re close enough that I can see Kane Bishop’s cold eyes. See the barrel of their gun pointed right at us.
Marco’s hands shake as he chambers the final round.
“You’ve got this,” I say quietly, my hand finding his shoulder. “Iknowyou’ve got this.”
His expression softens. The shaking stops.
Marco takes a deep breath. Leads the target. Accounts for our movement and theirs.
He squeezes the trigger.
The bullet punches through Bishop’s sternum. Blood blooms across his shirt, a spreading crimson stain. His hands fly from the handlebars, body jerking backward.
He flies off the quad bike, tumbling through the air.
The bike careens wildly, front wheel hitting a rock. It flips, metal and rubber cartwheeling through the dust.
Kane Bishop hits the ground and doesn’t move. Blood pools beneath him, dark against pale dirt. The shooter falls headfirst with a sickening, fatal crack.
Esme and I cheer, our voices lost in the van’s engine noise as we pull away from the wreckage.
Marco lowers the rifle slowly, staring at the dust cloud behind us. His chest heaves. His hands shake again—but different now. Not from fear or pressure.
From release.
“Told you,” I say, pulling him away from the opening.
He drops the rifle, his knees buckling. I catch him and suddenly we’re kissing—messy, breathless, both of us shaking with relief.
“And I toldyou, birdie,” he says against my lips.
“Told me what?”
“That we’d all go home to Atrea together.”
“We’re not there yet,” I grumble, but in my heart, we are.
We’re walking on that sand, the three of us, Marco and I holding hands while Esme collects shells and sea glass beside us.
We’re waking up every morning in a tangle of limbs—Marco’s arm thrown over my chest, his breath warm against my neck, sunlight streaming through windows that don’t have bars.
We’re teaching Esme how to fish from the rocks where Marco used to play with Lucas, her laughter carrying on the salt breeze while Marco and I steal kisses behind the tidal pools.
“Let’s go home,” I say, grabbing my sister’s hand in one, Marco’s in the other.
Of course, we might find nothing left. An island completely destroyed, every last building, crop, tree burned to the ground.
But Marco and me? We’re survivors. And whatever’s waiting for us on Atrea—whether it’s paradise or ashes—we’ll build something new from it.
Something all ours.
