Page 112 of Savage Surrender

Every swell tries to snatch her out of my grip. I tighten my arm until her back is sealed to my chest and keep swimming as hard as I can.

Someone shouts behind me, but I don’t even look.

The bond gives one weak pulse beneath my ribs. A hard pull burns through my shoulder on the next stroke. I push through and keep going. Bianca’s head slips when a wave lifts us, and I catch her chin again before her mouth goes under. Her skin is cold against my wrist.

“Breathe,” I tell her. “You don’t get to leave me again.”

A quiet Bianca is the worst kind of Bianca.

The pull on my legs finally loosens. I angle us back toward shore, swimming until the beach stops sliding sideways and starts coming closer. Sand finds my foot without warning. I push down and miss it the first time. On the second, my toes drag bottom. I turn, get both feet beneath me, and stagger toward shore with Bianca in my arms.

Weller comes out of the trees at a run. Blood streaks one side of his pants where the palmettos tore through, and his face changes when he sees her hanging against me.

He is in the water before I can call him.

“She’s not breathing.”

His hand presses beneath her jaw. Then to the side of her throat.

“She has a pulse.”

“We need to lay her down.”

He helps me carry her, and we lower her onto the wet sand. Weller keeps two fingers against her neck while I drop beside her and tip her head back. My hands know where to go. My head can’t process that Bianca’s mouth is open and no air is moving through it.

I clear her mouth, pinch her nose, and seal my lips over hers. The first breath doesn’t lift her chest.

I reposition her jaw and try again. Her chest rises beneath my palm, then falls and stays still.

Six seconds. I breathe for her again.

I count another six. They drilled the timing into me through junior lifeguards in middle school and every high school summer I worked a chair. I used to think that was excessive.

I breathe into her mouth again. Her chest rises. Falls.

“Bianca.” My hand closes around the back of her neck. Her skin is too cold. “Open your eyes. Please.”

I count to six and give her another breath.

Her chest jumps beneath my hand. She coughs against my mouth, a small wet sound that breaks into another before I can move. Weller and I roll her onto her side. I hold her shoulders while seawater and spit run over my hand and into the sand.

She drags in a thin, ugly breath, then another.

The bond comes back in a rush of pain, cold, and a confusion so heavy it nearly puts me on my knees.

“That’s it.” I push the wet hair off her cheek. “Again.”

She coughs until the sound turns raw, then opens her eyes. They move over the sky and Weller before finding me. Her fingers close weakly around my wrist.

“We’re here,” I tell her.

Her mouth moves, but another cough takes whatever she meant to say. She stays awake through it, shivering between us. A scrape has opened across her shoulder beneath the torn shirt. Blood and sand coat one shin. Red marks curve around her ribs.

Weller sees them when I do.

He takes off his shirt and wraps it around her. “We need to get her warm.”

I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. Her head falls against my shoulder. The small puffs of warm air I feel against my neck are faint but steady enough to calm me.