"Ahrick—"
"No." His voice was firm. Final.
"I'll survive it," I said, forcing the words out even though they tasted like ash. "Whatever happens, I'll survive. I've survived worse."
His hand caught my wrist. Gently. His grip was warm, his palm rough with calluses, and the touch sent electricity up my arm.
"You shouldn't have to," he said quietly.
I stared at him. At the bruises and blood and exhaustion written across every inch of him. At the determination in his eyes that hadn't dimmed despite everything.
"You're going to die in that pit," I whispered.
"Maybe." He didn't look away. "But not before I keep you safe."
"Why?" The question broke out of me. "Why does it matter so much? You don't even know me."
His thumb moved against my wrist. Just a small movement, barely there, but I felt it everywhere.
"I know enough."
My breath caught in my throat, my chest suddenly too tight.
"That's not an answer." I tried to pull my wrist free but his grip held—not forceful, just steady. Unshakeable. The warmth of his palm against my skin made my pulse hammer harder.
"It's the only one I have." His voice dropped lower, rougher, and something in the timbre of it made my stomach clench. "I know you're brave."
"Don't do this. Don't say things like that."
"I know you're smart." His eye—that one golden eye not swollen shut—held mine with an intensity that made me want to look away and lean closer at the same time. "I know you tend my wounds even though you're terrified."
My throat went tight. Heat prickled behind my eyes and I blinked hard against it.
"I know you offered to let someone else win—to sacrifice yourself—so I wouldn't have to fight anymore."
The words cracked something open inside my chest. Something I'd been holding closed with both hands since Declan. Since I'd learned that being seen meant being used. That vulnerability was just another weapon someone could turn against you.
But Ahrick wasn't wielding this like a weapon. He was offering it like a gift.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
"I know," he continued, and his thumb traced a small circle against the inside of my wrist—right over my pulse where it was racing, "that when I'm in that pit and I'm hurting and I'm tired and every part of me wants to quit, I look up and see you in that cage and I remember why I'm fighting."
My breath shuddered out of me. The heat behind my eyes turned liquid, threatening to spill over.
He was lying. He had to be lying. Nobody does this. Nobody fought themselves to death for a stranger. Nobody saw the broken parts and stayed anyway.
But the bruises covering his body told a different story. The exhaustion in his face. The way he'd come back night after night, more damaged each time, and still looked at me like I was something precious.
"Ahrick—" His name came out broken. Barely a whisper.
"I'm not standing down, Merrilee." His hand tightened slightly on my wrist—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor me. "I'm not letting anyone else have you. I'm not letting them hurt you. I don't care if it kills me."
The words hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying.
My hands were shaking. I felt the tremor running through my fingers, saw it in the way the antiseptic-soaked cloth quivered against his skin. My chest felt like it was caving in on itself, ribs compressing around lungs that couldn't quite remember how to expand.
This was how it started. This was how Declan started. Pretty words and promises and making you feel seen until you were so tangled up you couldn't tell protection from possession.
