Page 111 of Savage Surrender

“You go that way,” I tell him. “I’ll go this way.”

He runs for the nearest beach access, and I follow Bianca’s blood into the trees.

Tristan

Bianca’s fear disappears before I reach the bottom of the dune.

It doesn’t ease. One second it’s ripping through the bond, and the next there is nothing where she should be.

I stumble once I hit the soft sand. There’s a dark golf cart sitting crooked across the access. Blood streaks are visible on the passenger seat.

But there’s no one here, and I can’t see anyone on the beach.

I search the water while my lungs hunt for her scent, trying to pinpoint where she is. It’s strong near the edge.

A head appears beyond the break. Then another.

Farther downshore, another man surfaces long enough to shout. A wave breaks over his face and cuts him off.

I can’t see Bianca.

I run into the surf.

Cold water hits my knees, then my waist. The bottom drops out beneath my next step, and the current catches me before I can dive. I go with it long enough to clear the breaking waves and cut hard across instead of wasting strength fighting.

One of the men sees me. He raises a hand, and for half a second relief loosens his face.

“Help—help me.”

I swim past him.

His fingers tug at my shirt. I twist and kick him away. He tries again, wild enough now to climb on top of anything that floats. My elbow catches him beneath the mouth, and his head snaps back. He lets me go and I don’t look back.

Bianca was wearing a pale shirt.

I search for that instead of her face. A sleeve. Her hair. The flash of one pink nail above the surface. Anything.

Another of the men is floating on his back until a wave folds over him. He comes up on his stomach, arms slapping at the water.

I dive.

The water beneath the surface is full of sand. My eyes burn when I open them, but I can’t see anything. I kick up, pull in half a breath between waves, and dive again farther downcurrent.

Then I see a familiar shape, not moving. I kick hard until I’m right on top of her and can grab hold of her shirt. Bianca rolls when I pull at her, no resistance, one arm drifting above her head. Her eyes are closed. Her mouth is open, and her hair covers half her face, floating around her as the current carries both of us farther from shore.

No.

No.

This is not fucking happening.

My body finds the hold before my head does - one arm across her chest, her back against me, my legs driving us up.

Her face breaks the surface against my shoulder. She doesn’t cough. She doesn’t move. I wipe the hair from her mouth and hook my hand beneath her jaw, keeping her head above the water while I turn us parallel to the beach.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Cough for me.”

The words shake in my mouth. She’s eerily still.