Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Robin: Don't Hesitate
The raft bobs beneath me like a drunk man’s promise—three planks of rotting wood lashed together with fraying rope. The paddle in my hands weighs nothing, some joke of a tool crudely carved from driftwood.
The arena stretches before me, transformed into a blue expanse dotted with tiny artificial sand islands. To my left, a ship floats, its colossal mast piercing the sky. It almost looks too heavy for the vessel. The Emperor’s blue flag snaps in the wind at the top, proud and vicious.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the commentator’s voice thunders. “I present Robin Shore, and our reigning Deathball Champion, back for one last match, Marco Verus! This match is brought to you by Crown Shipping.”
A white vest hugs my chest, cut low enough to show muscle. Tiny dark blue shorts barely cover my ass. Matilda even painted anchor tattoos on my forearms with makeup, covering my bruises.
The alarm blares across the water—loud, metallic, final. Here we go.
No sign of Marco. Maybe he’s behind the ship, out of sight on another raft. Maybe they’ve got him chained below deck. Either way, I’ll see him soon. Then, as soon as the Deathball drops, he’s going to make it quick. Clean. He promised me that much.
I dip the paddle and push forward. The raft groans but holds. Water slaps against the underside, sending spray across my legs.
BOOM!
The world explodes in smoke and thunder. A cannonball screams past my head, so close I feel the displaced air. It crashes into the water twenty feet behind me, sending up a geyser.
Holy shit.
I force air into my lungs as I paddle harder. They won’t actually hit me, right? That would make for a boring match—a player blown apart before reaching the main event. The crowd wants blood, but they want to see it earned.
BOOM!
This one clips the edge of my raft. Wood splinters fly in every direction, sharp fragments stinging my face and arms. The rope snaps with a wet crack. My makeshift vessel disintegrates beneath me, planks spinning away like broken teeth.
I hit the freezing water hard. It floods my mouth, burns my nose. For a moment I’m under, weightless and blind, then I kick to the surface and break through, gasping.
The ship looms ahead. I start swimming, arms cutting through the manufactured waves.
The commentator’s voice booms across the arena, amplified and theatrical: “Ladies and gentlemen, stay in your seats and do not go near the water’s edge… because it’s time to release… the sharks!”
Sharks?
The crowd roars. I swim faster, every stroke desperate now.
A scream rips through the audience. I can’t tell if they’re cheering for blood or warning me. Are the sharks close? Can they see them from the stands?
I’d rather take a cannonball to the chest than feel teeth sink into my legs. Quick death versus being ripped apart piece by piece while still drowning. No contest.
My shoulders burn with each stroke. The water feels thick, resistant, like swimming through oil. Every shadow beneath the surface could be death circling up from the depths.
There. Something dark moves in my peripheral vision.
I don’t look. Looking will slow me down, and slowing down means dying. The ship grows larger, its hull rising from the water like a black wall. Ropes dangle down the side—thick climbing ropes with knots every few feet.
The audience’s shouts intensify. They can see something I can’t. My legs kick harder, churning the water behind me. If there’s a shark down there, I’m basically ringing the dinner bell.
I slam into the hull, grabbing the nearest rope and hauling myself up hand over hand. My arms shake from the swim, muscles screaming.
Don’t look down. Don’t think about what might be waiting if I fall.
Up. Keep going up.
My fingers find the rail. I throw myself over the side and crash onto the deck, chest heaving. The wooden planks feel solid and safe beneath my back. For a moment, I just lie there, letting my heart remember how to beat, letting the water drip from my clothes.
Were there really sharks? Or was it just theatrics to make me panic?
I crawl to the rail on my hands and knees, still catching my breath, and peer over the edge.
Three bull sharks circle below. Thick, muscular bodies cutting through the water with casual menace. Their fins slice the surface, dark and razor-sharp. One breaks away from the group, swimming toward where I was moments ago, jaws opening to reveal rows of very, very sharp teeth.
If I’d been five seconds slower. If I’d slipped from the rope…
I shuffle back from the rail. I can’t fall in. Whatever happens on this ship, I cannot fall back into that water.
The crowd’s noise shifts, becomes expectant. Waiting.
I force myself to my feet, legs unsteady. Fucking hell. My body already feels wrung out, pushed past its limits before the real fight has even begun.
The deck stretches before me, empty except for coiled ropes and rigging. Still no Marco.
Where the hell is he?
Something makes me look up. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe desperation. Above me, hidden behind the massive flag that snaps and billows in the arena wind, a crow’s nest perches at the top of the mast.
And there, completely dry, stands Marco.
His hair isn’t even damp. The white sailor vest fits him perfectly, no water stains or marks. His dark eyes scan the deck below with something that’s almost cold calculation.
For a moment, our eyes lock. His face shows nothing—no recognition, no warmth, no trace of the man who held me last night and told me he’d miss me every second we were apart.
I find myself desperately wanting him to smile, just once.
Some small acknowledgment. The silence stretches between us across the distance.
Sudden squawking erupts overhead. We both look up as a dozen colorful birds—some kind of parrot—circle above the ship. Shiny objects glint in their claws, catching the arena lights.
Then they let go.
Metal rains down across the deck with sharp, clattering sounds. One object strikes my head hard enough to hurt. I stumble backwards.
A key. Small, brass, warm from the bird’s grip.
Another key smacks into Marco’s open palm. He examines it briefly, then his gaze shifts to something behind me.
I turn. A line of wooden chests runs along the ship’s rail, each one different—some small and plain, others large with ornate metalwork. Gold trim gleams on the biggest one.
The crowd probably thinks I’ve lost my mind because I make no move toward the chests, just stand here watching Marco finally begin to descend the rigging.
Hand over hand, smooth and practiced. The oversized and unstable mast, hastily erected for the show, shakes precariously with every movement.
When he reaches the bottom section, he simply jumps—a drop that would break most men’s ankles.
He lands in a crouch, absorbing the impact effortlessly. Muscle memory from years of arena training. And of course, the crowd cheers his theatrical display of athleticism.
Even from across the deck, he looks magnificent. The white vest clings to the broad line of his shoulders, shows off the bronze of his arms. There’s not a dark hair out of place—curls fall across his forehead in waves.
“Marco!”
He doesn’t even glance my way. Just heads straight for the largest chest, the one with gold trim, fisting the key.
“Marco!”
Frustration builds within me, but… Marco’s only following our plan. I need to play along, make it all look real for the audience. For the cameras.
I scoop up two more keys from the deck and rush toward the line of chests, choosing one at random, fumbling with the lock.
The first key doesn’t fit. Neither does the second.
The third one slides home with a satisfying click. The chest lid pops open, revealing a short cutlass nestled in red velvet. The blade gleams silver-bright, perfectly balanced in my hand when I lift it.
I turn, expecting to find Marco still testing keys.
Instead, he’s already armed. The cutlass in his grip is massive—easily twice the length of mine, with a basket hilt that covers his entire fist. Professional grade. Champions’ equipment.
Before I have time to blink, he launches himself at me.
“Marco!”
The third time I’ve said his name, but this time, I’m shocked and angry.
The cutlass feels clumsy in my grip compared to the practiced way he holds his weapon. Our blades crash together with a ringing clang that echoes across the deck. The impact sends vibrations up my arm, rattling my teeth, the force nearly tearing the cutlass from my grasp.
“You knew!” he snarls at me.
His next strike comes from the left. I barely get my blade up in time to deflect it, stumbling backward toward the rail.
“What?”
Steel screams against steel as he presses forward, driving me back step by step. His face is a mask of rage I’ve never seen before—not even that first day when I spat in his face.
“Did. You. Know?”
Each word punctuated by another vicious swing. I duck under a slice that would have taken my head off, roll to the side, come up gasping.
“Did I know what?”
The cutlass whistles past my ear. I lunge forward, trying to get inside his reach, but he sidesteps and brings the pommel down hard between my shoulder blades. Pain explodes down my spine. I almost cry. Not from the agony, but from not understanding why he’s doing this.
“You saw them!” His voice cracks with fury. “You saw them slaughter my family, then you lied to my fucking face! For months!”
The words hit me harder than any physical blow. My foot catches on a coil of rope, and I trip, stumbling backward. My legs tangle and I crash to the deck hard, rolling to avoid the blade that buries itself in the wood where my head was a second earlier.
Before I can scramble away, Marco grabs me by the vest and hauls me upright. His strength is terrifying—he lifts me like I weigh nothing and hurls me into the line of chests. Wood splinters under my back. Metal locks and hinges dig into my spine.
He knows my body is still broken.
He clearly doesn’t care.
“Well?”