A promise I want to believe to the very depths of my soul.
His fingers burn into my thigh. He slams into me, coming deep and hard, his grip so tight on my throat I can barely breathe.
But I don’t need it. Not ever again.
All I need are his lips, his hand stroking over my hair, and his husky promise: “Te elijo como mío.”
Chapter seventeen
Marco: Death Between Us
We lie together on the lounge. His hand has never once stilled in my hair, drawing gentle trails with his fingertips. My own hand, reaching back over my shoulder, traces small circles at the base of his hairline, along the back of his neck.
We can’t move.
I think he knows it too.
If we move, if we break the moment, we’re trapped men, and it’s all over.
If we let the world back in, it tears us all to pieces.
It’s one week until his match. There’s a very good chance he’ll die.
And if he doesn’t… If our two names appear on the next fixture sheet, side by side, I’ll have to smash his head in with the Deathball.
I don’t know which to hope for. That he’s taken from me sooner, next week, just when he’s discovered who I am, right after we’ve shared this. Or is it better we make it through the first stage, round after brutal round, all the way through variety season, maybe spend months together, and then I kill him.
I can’t kill him.
I have to gethome.
I will kill him if I have to.
My hand flinches away of its own accord, his beautiful form suddenly like a dead thing to me.
Until he catches it, takes it to his lips, and I melt all over again.
“You should go. The sun will soon rise.”
“The sun’s hours away.”
“You need to sleep. To train tomorrow. You have work to—”
“Marco.” His fingers trailing through my hair again, gathering the frayed edges of my soul into the palm of his hand, smoothing them over. “Not yet.”
He knows. One wrong move, the illusion shatters.
His lips brush the back of my neck, then the fresh stubble of his cheek works against my jaw, spreading warmth all through me. How I crave the scent of him. I’ll remember this far too well, for far too long. I have never been held this way.
“When I get home, I’ll tell them,” I promise him, the words coming out of nowhere, surprising me in their earnestness. It’s all I can give him. “They’ll know to wait for you. Or, if you die here, I won’t let you be forgotten.”
His head turns down, a long breath gliding over my shoulder. “There is only my sister to tell.”
“She’ll be eighteen when you return home.”
His movements slow, his face turning a little closer toward me.
Of course I remember her age. She’s the same age Lucas was when I was taken. My baby brother, a thorn in my side until I had him no more. But he lives on. And he knows I didn’t choose to leave them.
