Chapter Thirty
The water slams into me with crushing force, sending me sprawling.
My body hits the rocks beneath the surface, and it’s like I’m being dragged along a washing board, the jagged edges cutting into my skin.
I’m pulled under, and the river wraps around me.
It chokes me, drowns me. I claw at the current, disorientated, but it’s relentless, holding me under until I’m nothing but a rag doll in its grasp.
My arms flail for survival and, finally, I break the surface. I gasp and cough, managing to throw myself on to the bank. What the hell just happened?
Through the blur of water in my eyes, I see Taron. He’s facing off against someone on the other side of the river – Gideon.
Taron holds jagged, circular blades between each finger on both hands. He throws the blades in the air, and they hover beside him, rising over his head like a halo.
Gideon is quick to retaliate. He stomps his foot, and water spurts from the river in the form of spiked cannonballs. Taron rolls out of the way. His arm is outstretched as he sends two of his blades through the air.
They find their mark – one embeds itself in Gideon’s arm, and the other grazes his ear, drawing a string of blood.
I gasp as a hand out of nowhere yanks me back by my hair. The ground comes quickly, the impact driving whatever breath I had regained from my lungs.
I turn to see who’s behind me. Cyrus. His lips curl into a cruel grin as he presses a glowing blade to my throat. It hisses against my skin, not the biting sting of steel, but a burning, flaring heat, like the touch of the sun itself.
“This is cosy, isn’t it?” Cyrus whispers in my ear. He lowers himself into a crouch and his arm winds around my waist. The weight of the blade at my neck keeps me still. He has me entirely at his mercy. One slice and I’m done for.
“You should be careful out here in the jungle, Freckles,” he taunts, his voice venomous as he twists my chin towards him with the back of his hand. “I hear it’s very dangerous.”
I meet his dark gaze, trying to keep an appearance of calm. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.
“Are you really going to kill me?” My voice is steady, despite the terror clawing at my insides.
“Hand over your half of the crystal star, and I won’t have to.”
“I don’t have our half of the crystal.”
A seething pain flares across my neck as Cyrus tightens his grip. “Then tell your teammate to give it to me.”
I suppress a cry, unwilling to show him any weakness. “You won’t kill me, Cyrus.”
“What makes you so sure?” he sneers. “Flirting with you is fun and all, but it’s still a tournament.”
“Because I see you.”
He’s quiet.
“Every day, playing the role of a spoiled prince.”
There’s a twitch in his brow.
“You play it well,” I add. “Too well. You pretend you don’t care about anything.
But if that were true, you wouldn’t be here on the island.
Risking your life in a deadly tournament with nothing to gain.
What could you possibly need the wish for?
Money? Fame? You have everything. Except, maybe, the respect of your family. ”
Cyrus flares his nostrils. His face is red, a vein between his brows becoming engorged with anger. It’s a gamble, playing the family card. One that could go either way. But he doesn’t say anything, because he knows I’m right.
“I can’t tell if you’re brave or stupid,” he finally says. “Here I am, with a blade to your neck, and you still dare to insult a prince.”
“Tongues are often the sharpest of blades. I reckon that makes us even.”
“What to do with you, Freckles…” His gaze drops to my lips, and he eases the blade away from my throat.
I hold back a breath of relief. Cyrus continues to stare at me. He leans in, slowly, when a roar rips through the air.
Cyrus jerks his head up, distracted. I shove him away and make it to my feet, clutching my throat where the blade had grazed it. Small red dots come away on my fingers, blood drawn from lacerations so small they’re barely visible to the naked eye.
The roar came from Taron. He’s charging, and I’ve never seen a reaction so explosive from him, fury etched into every line of his face. Cyrus barely has time to react before Taron slams into him, sending both of them crashing into the river.
I’m about to rush to Taron’s aid when Gideon appears out of nowhere. He grabs me from behind, locking me in a chokehold.
“Hold still,” he growls. “You’re lucky His Highness likes you. Your boyfriend, that’s another story.”
“No!” My voice cracks, panic flooding my veins as I watch the men fight. Cyrus gains the upper hand, pushing Taron down into the water and holding him there. Taron thrashes, but Cyrus doesn’t relent – he’s drowning him.
“Stop!” I scream again, clawing at Gideon’s arm until it’s red.
Desperation blurs my vision. It drives me. I draw upon the panic within me and channel it into Gideon, infecting him from the inside like I did with Troy in the village.
I press my palms against his chest, and he quivers. He’s unable to speak. Unable to move, his muscles pulled taut in agony.
“Hey, Cyrus!” I shout. “Let him go, or your servant dies.”
Cyrus hesitates, glancing at Gideon’s terrified expression. He’s weighing the value of his most loyal supporter’s life against his hatred for Taron – and I briefly wonder if he might choose the latter.
His face, usually a mask of arrogance or fury, is momentarily unreadable. A tension tightens the skin around his mouth. Then he curses under his breath and lets Taron go. His body is slack, floating lifelessly to the surface.
As soon as Cyrus steps away from him, I push Gideon aside and wade into the river after Taron. I drag him on to the bank, flip him over in the shallow water and let his head rest in my lap.
“You all right, Gid?” I hear Cyrus ask, and the question might’ve stunned me if I weren’t holding Taron’s limp form in my arms.
Then Cyrus towers over us again. He bends down, grabs our half of the crystal star from Taron’s utility belt and walks away.
“Whatever. We’ve got a tournament to win,” he mutters before taking off, guiding his ashen teammate beyond the trees.
I know I should stop them from escaping with our half of the crystal, but I can’t. I can’t get up. There’s a bleeding pain in my chest, a sickening feeling in my stomach as I shake Taron’s slack body.
He can’t be dead. He can’t be.
I press my hands to Taron’s chest, forcing down the sob building in my throat. I start compressions, counting in frantic whispers, begging for his heart to beat again.
This can’t be the end. I repeat the phrase in my head, over and over again, until I realize I’m muttering it out loud. I lean down, ready to breathe life into him, when—
Taron convulses. Water sputters from his lips as he coughs violently.
Tears of relief wash over my cheeks. I cup his face with my hands, my body trembling. “I can’t believe it,” I breathe, my voice shaky. “You’re alive.”
His eyes flutter open. “You … saved me.”
“Of course I did. I couldn’t let you die.” I let go of his face and sit back in the shallow water. There’s something raw in the way he looks at me now, his breathing ragged.
Everything goes still. A spark gathers in the pit of my stomach. It’s as though the world is holding its breath. As though the air is pulling us closer. I can’t stop myself.
I lean forward, gingerly tilting his chin up, and press my lips to his. The kiss is cold like his skin, but also electric, igniting something deep within me that I didn’t know was there.
Taron sits up in the water. His fingers reach for the back of my head, and he pulls me closer. The kiss isn’t soft or sweet. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s raw and urgent, as if we’re both trying to cling to something slipping away.
His hand moves down my back to my waist, and I lean into him as close as I can – even that doesn’t feel close enough.
I’m breathless. My thoughts are jumbled. Taron’s lips move with a hunger that mirrors my own, like we’re both starved for this.
“You were wrong,” I whisper between kisses. My fingers tangle in his hair as the river’s crisp water laps at our knees.
“About what?” Taron asks.
“What happened in the shower house … it wasn’t a mistake.”
His breath hitches and the tension between us builds, but then – as suddenly as it began – Taron pulls away. He scrambles to his feet and steps back, the water swirling around his legs as he turns his face away from me, his chest heaving.
“I can’t do this,” he gasps.
“What? Why?”
“Not when you don’t know the truth.”
“The truth?” I ask, getting to my feet.
Taron’s face twists. The closeness we just shared evaporates into the evening air, leaving a raw, open wound in its place.
His words come slowly, like they cost him something to say. “I was there. In the cottage, the day you found the Necroseals. I followed you to the Night Market … and back to your cottage. I’m the reason Madame Vera knew where to find you.”
And Elara.
The ground falls away beneath me. My heart skips a beat. Two. Three. I stagger back, the space between us suddenly too much, too wide. It can’t be. Not him.
“What?”
Taron’s expression is pained. “I’m sorry.”
The betrayal is a physical blow. But beneath it, a searing wave of recrimination. How could I have been so foolish? So desperate? So oblivious?
I let myself trust him. I grew close to him, sought his support and convinced myself we’re a team. All while he carried this terrible secret. Something in me snaps. The desire, the closeness we shared moments ago, is gone, leaving behind something sharp and bitter.
My chest twists with a tornado of emotions – betrayal, anger, devastation – and I rush forward until I slam my fists into Taron’s chest.
He stumbles back, making no move to stop me.
“This whole time I’ve been wondering how she found me,” my voice cracks, “and it was because of you?”
“I didn’t know you then. Didn’t know myself, if I’m honest. If I’d known what would happen … that Madame Vera would go after your sister…”
“What? You would’ve done things differently?”
Taron swallows but doesn’t answer. He can’t, because that would mean admitting to me that Madame Vera has his soul. The weight of his words, of everything he’s told me, folds around me like a suffocating blanket. It smothers every thought. Every breath.
I pull my arms into my chest. The wet fabric of my uniform clings uncomfortably to my skin as I storm into the dark, my boots slipping through the mud.
The glow of his kiss still lingers on my lips. The press of his mouth is still imprinted on mine. My cold rage drowns it all out.
Taron led Madame Vera straight to me, and now Elara is dead. The thought makes me want to scream, to tear down the trees around me and destroy something, anything, to make this feeling go away.
But I can’t stop. Cyrus and Gideon are still out there, and I just let them take our half of the crystal star. I can’t let them win. I can’t let any of the surviving contestants win. Not now. Not when everything is more at stake than ever.
I let myself get sidetracked by Taron. I foolishly opened up to him. I believed he could be more than Madame Vera’s puppet. That ends now.
I’m getting through this tournament, even if I die trying.