He beams up at me from the forest floor, twigs in his hair, dirt on his cheek.
Despite everything, I almost smile. There’s something about this moment I want to freeze—all of us here together, breathing hard from training, Cas laughing like an idiot. Everyone still alive. Everyone still whole.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air. Marco, calling us like dogs.
We form a semicircle around him. He’s walked up from the clearing where we’ve been sparring, closer to the stream that runs along the edge of the training ground. Water trickles over smooth stones. Birds chirp in thecanopy above. Almost pleasant, like we’re on some woodland stroll instead of preparing to murder each other.
“You,” he says, and I somehow know he means me even before his eyes lock onto mine.
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts.
He beckons me forward with a jerk of his chin. A strange hush ripples through the others.
Cas has to nudge me to get me to move forward.
“Yes?” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Your Majesty?”
A few people titter.
Marco doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all. “You’ll be aware by now your match with Elijah involves a fuck ton of water. You need to be able to fight in and around water.”
He doesn’t give me any warning.
His foot sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the ground hard, shoulder first, then roll. But he’s already on top of me, wrestling me toward the stream’s edge.
“Marco—”
His hand clamps over my mouth. We struggle, rolling in the mud and dead leaves. I try to throw him off, but he’s got leverage and fresh strength whereas my muscles are screaming from hours of fighting.
He gets me face down at the water’s edge. Shoves my head under.
Cold shock hits my skull. The stream isn’t deep, but it doesn’t need to be. I thrash, trying to buck him off, but his weight pins me down. Through the distorted water, I can hear him shouting.
“Push me off!”
I push against the rocky bottom, trying to lift myself up. His hand presses harder against the back of my head.
“Fucking do it!”
But I’m not strong enough. Not after this morning’s grueling session where I’ve been worked like a dog while he’s mostly been standing around.
My lungs start to burn. I twist desperately, trying to get my knees under me. His grip slips for a second—I almost surface—before he shoves me back down.
The burning in my chest turns to fire. My body screams for air. I thrash harder, panic clawing up my throat. How long has it been? Thirty seconds? A minute?
He’s going to kill me.
The thought solidifies. This isn’t training. This is Marco deciding I’m not worth keeping alive.
My vision starts to blur. Dark spots dance at the edges. Then my body betrays me—so desperate for oxygen that my lungs try to breathe. Water rushes in, liquid fire searing my throat and chest. I’m drowning. Actually drowning.
I can’t stop choking, can’t stop my body’s frantic attempts to expel the water and breathe at the same time. My muscles start to go slack. The thrashing becomes weaker.
Esme.
Her face flashes through my mind. Blonde hair, gray eyes, so like mine. We’re running on the beach together, sun on our faces, me dragging her along.
I’ll never know what happened to her.
