Page 116 of Cold Mercy

I’m not that little girl anymore. I don’t need pity or supervision, and I sure as hell don’t need a man, any man, telling me who I should avoid, who I should trust, or how I should live my life.

I already spent half my youth tethered to a man who broke me in every way possible.

I step outside with my coffee and immediately hear the chaos by the lake. Almost everyone is splashing in the water, like the lake is laced with MDMA. Elizabeth is yelling something at James, James is yelling back, Maya is filming him like it’s a nature documentary, and Charles is floating on his back, laughing so hard he almost sinks.

And then there’s Reed.

Sitting on one of the lounge chairs like the designated grump of the resort, jaw tight, watching everyone like the sun personally offended him. The corner of his mouth twitches every so often, but he kills the smile before it fully forms. He looks like a man allergic to joy who accidentally walked into a honeymoon commercial.

I walk toward the dock, drop my mug on a post, and call out, “James, weren’t you supposed to start the bonfire prep? Charles, weren’t you supposed to babysit James? And you,” I point at Elizabeth, “I trusted you.”

They all laugh like I’m scolding children.

Charles swims to the edge, water running off his light-brown hair in bright streaks.

“Come on, Soph, forgive us,” he says, stretching a wet hand toward me in dramatic apology.

The moment I take his outstretched hand, the bastard yanks me straight into the lake.

Cold water slaps my skin, floods my top, and steals the air from my lungs. I grab the dock on instinct, nails digging into the wood.

“Charles! You absolute asshole!” I choke on lake water and half-laugh, half-scream.

Everyone is laughing, and I want to stay annoyed, but even I start laughing because it’s too absurd not to.

Instantly, my white shirt is soaked and plastered to my skin, rendering the thin fabric completely see-through over my black bikini top. Fantastic.

I cling to the dock because I can't swim, and strangely, drowning isn't my thing tonight.

“I’m going to the bonfire,” I announce, kicking water toward Charles. “If I leave it to you, we’re not eating tonight.”

They shout protests, tell me to relax, splash water at me, but I’m already pushing myself toward getting out.

I glance up and catch Thomas staring at me.

Not glancing or checking, staring. His eyes are fixed on me in the water, following every movement I make. Like he can’t look away even if he tries.

Well. If he’s going to drown me in that stare, I might as well use him.

“Thomas!” I call, raising my voice just enough. “Since you’ve been staring holes through me for the last three minutes, want to be useful and help me out?”

He’s on his feet instantly, as if he was waiting for permission to move. He jogs to the edge, kneels, and reaches a hand toward me, all concerned and focused like we’re reenacting a dramatic rescue scene.

I take his hand and yank him straight into the lake.

His body hits the water with a heavy splash, and when he resurfaces, his black shirt is soaked and clinging to every line of muscle he has no right to hide under clothing. His hair is slicked back, drops running down his throat, and for a split second my brain short-circuits.

God, he’s stupidly hot.

He pushes his wet hair back, blinks water from his lashes, and swims toward me, smiling like he’s trying not to.

“Really, princess?” he says, voice low and warm. “That was below the belt.”

My pulse stumbles.

Behind us, the group reacts exactly how I imagine. James is howling with laughter, Elizabeth is clutching her chest like she’s watching a soap opera, and Charles is glaring daggers in our direction like he’s plotting a murder.

Thomas gets even closer, treading water in front of me, and I swear the lake shrinks around us. His hand skims my waist lightly under the surface as the current pushes us together, and that alone sends heat ripping up my spine.