Chapter 9
Merrilee
I couldn't sleep.
We lay in the darkness, his hand still holding mine, his breathing deep and even. I'd thought he was asleep—hoped he was, because his body needed rest more than it needed anything else right now.
But then his thumb moved against my palm. Just a small circle. Deliberate.
"You're thinking too loud," he said quietly.
A surprised laugh escaped me. "What?"
"I can hear you thinking." His voice was rough with exhaustion but tinged with something that might have been amusement. "Your thoughts are so loud they're keeping me awake."
"That's not possible."
"Isn't it?" Another circle against my palm. "You're worrying. About the next fight. About Hewes. About whether I'll survive long enough to kill him."
My breath caught. "How did you—"
"Because I'm thinking the same things."
I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. In the dim light filtering through the barred window, I could just make out his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
"You're not like them," I said. The words came out before I could stop them.
"Who?"
"The other prisoners. The fighters. The—" I struggled to find the right word. "The monsters."
His hand tightened on mine. "I am a monster, Merrilee."
"No, you're not."
"You don't know what I've done."
"Then tell me." I shifted closer, propping myself up on one elbow so I saw his face better. "How does someone like you end up in a place like this?"
He was quiet for a long moment. So long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "I was an assassin."
The words hung in the air between us.
"For the Alliance," he continued, his voice flat. Emotionless. "Vaktaire are good at killing. Fast. Strong. Hard to stop. The Alliance used me for the jobs that needed to be done quietly. Efficiently."
I stayed silent, letting him talk.
"I was good at it." His jaw tightened. "Too good. I never questioned the missions. Never asked why. Just did what I was told and moved on to the next target."
His thumb had stopped moving against my palm. His hand had gone rigid.
"There was a compound," he said. "On a colony world. My handler—an Alliance ambassador—told me it was a terrorist cell. Dangerous people planning an attack. He gave me the coordinates, the timeline, the explosives."
My stomach started to sink.
"I planted the charges. Set the timer. Got out clean." His voice had gone hollow. "The building came down exactly as planned. Mission accomplished."
"Ahrick—"
"There was a family inside."
The words came out sharp. Jagged. And then his whole body went rigid.
"A mother. A father. Three younglings." His voice cracked on the last word. "The youngest was four years old."
He stopped. Just—stopped. Like the words had physically choked him.
His chest heaved, ribs expanding and contracting too fast, too shallow. Each breath seemed to cost him. I saw the pain ripple across his face—not from his injuries, but from something deeper. Something that had been festering for however long he'd been carrying this.
"They weren't terrorists." The words came out strangled now, like he was forcing them past barbed wire in his throat.
"They were civilians. The ambassador had a personal grudge against the father—some business deal gone wrong.
He used me to settle it. Used Alliance resources and an Alliance assassin to commit murder out of spite. "
Both hands came up to his face, pressing against his eyes, his forehead, like he could physically push the memory back inside. Then they dropped, and he sat up slowly, carefully, his broken ribs making the movement painful. But he didn't seem to notice.
"When I found out—" He had to stop, had to breathe, had to force himself to continue. "When I saw the reports, saw the names—"
His hands started shaking. Visibly trembling in the dim light.
"When I saw the pictures of those younglings—"
I sat up too, my heart racing, watching him come apart, wanting to offer comfort but not knowing how.
"I went to the ambassador." The words were barely audible now. "Asked him if it was true. If he'd sent me to kill innocents."
I saw his jaw working, muscles jumping beneath the skin as he clenched his teeth so hard I thought they might crack.
"He laughed. Said it was just business. Said I was a weapon, and weapons don't get to question their purpose."
"What did you do?"
"I killed him."
Simple. Direct. No hesitation in his voice. But the flatness was wrong—too controlled, too locked down. Like he'd shut off completely just to get the words out. Like if he let himself feel anything, he'd shatter completely.
"Right there in his office. Snapped his neck and left him on the floor."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Then I turned myself in," he continued, his voice still that terrible, empty monotone. "Walked into Alliance headquarters and confessed everything. The assassination. The murder of the ambassador. All of it."
"They sent you here."
"I asked to be sent here."
His eyes finally met mine, and what I saw there made my chest constrict. Not just pain. Not just guilt. Complete and utter conviction that he deserved every second of suffering this place could inflict.
"I told them I deserved Palaydium. I wanted the harshest punishment they could give."
His gaze dropped. He couldn't hold eye contact. Couldn't bear to see whatever he thought he'd find in my expression.
"Because those younglings—" His voice broke again. "They were innocent. And I killed them."
"You didn't know."
"I should have known." The self-loathing in his voice was visceral. "I should have done more recon. Should have verified the intelligence. Should have done something other than blindly follow orders."
"You were a soldier. You trusted your commanding officer."
"I was a killer." He turned away from me completely now, presenting me with the scarred landscape of his back. "I am a killer. That's all I've ever been. All I'll ever be."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He gestured around the room. "I'm in the fighting pits on a prison planet, Merrilee. I kill people for entertainment. For the chance to keep you safe, yes, but I'm still killing them. Still adding to the body count."
"Those fighters would kill you if you didn't kill them first."
"Does that make it better?" His voice was raw. "Does that absolve me?"
I moved closer to him, my hand reaching for his shoulder. "You're not a bad man, Ahrick."
He flinched away from my touch. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." I moved around to face him, forcing him to look at me. "You make me feel safe. You've fought injured and bleeding to protect me."
"That doesn't erase what I've done."
"No. But it shows who you are now." I reached up, my hand cupping his face. He went still. "You're not the weapon the Alliance made you. You're not the assassin who followed orders without question. You're the man who turned himself in. Who accepted punishment. Who's trying to be better."
"I killed younglings, Merrilee." His voice was barely a whisper. "How do I come back from that?"
"I don't know." I was honest with him. "Maybe you don't. Maybe that's something you carry forever. But it doesn't mean you're damned."
"I don't deserve—"
"Stop." My thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "You're here. You're fighting. You're protecting me. That matters."
His hand came up, covering mine. "You should be afraid of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"But I'm not." I leaned closer. "I trust you, Ahrick. With my life. With everything."
His breathing changed. Got heavier.
"Merrilee—"
I kissed him.
Because words weren't enough anymore.
Because he was drowning in his own guilt and I needed him to know—to feel—that I saw him. Not the monster he thought he was. Not the weapon the Alliance forged. Not the killer haunted by the blood on his hands.
I saw him.
The man who'd fought for me in that arena even when his body was breaking. Who'd looked at me like I was something precious when everyone else in this hellhole saw me as currency.
So I kissed him.
Because he needed to understand that I wasn't some naive girl who didn't grasp what he'd done. I heard him. I understood. And I was choosing him anyway—not because I was broken or desperate or too damaged to know better, but because beneath all that guilt and self-loathing was a man worth knowing.
And maybe I was selfish. Maybe I needed this too—needed to feel something real and raw and alive in a place designed to strip away everything decent. Needed to prove that Declan hadn't destroyed my ability to trust, to want, to choose.
It was tentative at first. Testing. My lips brushing against his, feeling the heat of him, the sharp intake of breath when our mouths met.
For a moment he didn't move. Didn't respond.
Then something broke loose inside him.
A faint groan escaped his throat and his hand slid into my hair—not gently, but with a desperation that bordered on violence—and he pulled me closer even as his whole body went rigid with conflict.
I felt the tremor run through him, felt the way his muscles locked up like he was fighting himself, fighting the need to touch me against the certainty that he shouldn't.
But he couldn't stop.
His mouth crashed against mine with a hunger that stole my breath, hot and demanding, and his tongue slid against mine like he was drowning and I was air. I opened for him without hesitation, and the sound he made—low and broken and desperate—vibrated through my chest.
God, he tasted good. Like something wild and dangerous and utterly intoxicating.
His other hand found my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I felt the war in his touch—the way he gripped me like I might disappear, like he needed proof I was real, but his whole body was shaking with the effort of holding back. Of not taking more than he thought he deserved.