Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
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Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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The lamplight had long since given way. All that remained of the restaurant stood in the honey-glazed glow of the tea-light burning on a nearby table, its wax already dangerously translucent, highlighting the spine of the wick. The flame stretched for the shadowy ceiling like taffy, pulling itself thin as soul death lurked in my peripherals, staining my senses every time I dared to try and perceive it.
Ceramic scraped as the boy at my feet stirred, fumbling amongst the shattered plates for more ammunition. There was little to be had; the wanton spread of food was now displayed on every surface: smushed into the threads of the carpet; smeared on chairs and tables; splattered on cheeks and arms and backs and chests. My hair was caked with honey and soy, his with greasy butter and congealing fat from the slow-roasted lamb. Our chests heaved with exertion, from the strain of a fight I could scarcely remember.
There was something achingly familiar about the boy's face, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I sensed that I used to care for him, but we were facing off as if we were enemies. I quelled the urge to grab the dribbling wine-bottle at my feet and break it over his head, opting to kneel beside him instead and let muscle memory take over. To cradle his head in my lap. To comb back the hair falling into his face. To press a soft, tender kiss against his burnished forehead.
"What the hell are we doing?" he asked, tears welling in his eyes. So pretty — like the sea I'd only ever seen on a flat screen, always shifting and roiling, always hiding something below.
"I don't know," I said reflexively. In truth, I wasn't even sure where we were. Who we were.
"You win, okay? I can't do this anymore," he said, his voice breaking on the last word.
"Okay," I said softly, cupping his cheek and smoothing away the tension from his frown. My thumb rubbed something sticky deeper into his pores.
The golden-haired boy pushed himself up on his elbows, bringing our faces closer together. "I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing a dainty kiss to the tip of my nose. A slight shiver ran through my body at that chaste contact, the intimacy it implied.
All of a sudden I was twisting, capturing his mouth with mine. It was a desperate, demanding kiss, a mutual taking, his fingers twining through my hair and securing my head in place, his thumbs digging into my waist with bruising force. Memory coursed through me, leaping from skin to skin, only driving me to kiss him harder as I remembered our nights spent on the roof, looking up at the stars; our evenings huddled up in the attic, sharing a beanbag and watching movies on his laptop; every loaded, knowing glance and in-joke; every painful misunderstanding and bittersweet resolution.
"Take it all," he whispered against my mouth, as I lost him all over again. Bloody crescents buoyed to the surface of his burnished skin, leading up his right arm and to the ruin of his throat. "Live."
"No," I snarled, throwing him underneath me, pinning him in place. "Not without you."
He reared up as I swooped down, meeting me halfway for another cataclysmic kiss. Our souls flared silver as they clashed and merged, even as our bodies tangled and fused. The candle guttered but we burned bright as the darkness closed in, spending the last of our strength — our memories, our lives, our hope — on a foolish gambit for the other's salvation.
We would live together or die together. There was no other way.
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