“Let’s go,” I tell her. “Now.”
The race to the bridge is our biggest challenge. We leave behind the commotion of the search as we bolt across the highway. Cars screech to a halt, headlights flash, horns blare.
Thirty seconds to go.
I quicken our pace once we reach the median, her cries of pain slicing through me. If I could take her pain for her, I would. Our destination is ahead, close now. Another five seconds, and we’re here.
She grabs her side, doubles over. “We’re out in the open,” she says, catching her breath.
I peer over the side of the bridge. “We’re going down.”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No. I’m not dying for you?—”
I grab her around the waist, pulling her tightly against me. She struggles, kicking and fighting as I back us up against the concrete guardrail. “You already made your choice.”
Then I take her with me over the edge.
The creek hits us like an icy fist, the impact knocking air from my lungs. My shoulder tears against a rock beneath the surface. I aimed for the deepest part of the Brandywine, yet the water is still too shallow.
“Oh, my god—” She sputters and wipes at her face. “I hate you so much.”
I circle my arms around her and haul her close. “You act like you’ve never swam in a creek, country girl.”
The sides of her fists beat at my arms, water splashing. “Jesus, Grayson, this is madness.”
I palm her face, forcing her gaze up to mine. “This is beyond madness—this is what obsession does to a man.” I swallow hard, my throat raw. “From my first taste of you, I knew I’d never get you out of my system…knew I’d risk insanity to have you.”
She blinks the droplets of water away, searching my face through the dark. “Grayson…” she whispers my name hesitantly, the pressure of her fingers cautious against my soaked shirt. “What you want is impossible. You have to know that.”
“You and I are connected, London. We belong together,” I say, obstinate. “I’m already a dead man. I’d rather die chasing something impossible with you than rot behind bars.”
Her hand trembles against my chest. “I can still help you,” she says, a dangerous mix of pleading and pity filling her eyes. “You’re confused, Grayson. You’re sick.”
My jaw clenches, and I tighten my grip possessively around her wrist. “Then we’ll be sick together.”
I push off the creek bed to stand, drawing London up alongside me. “Stay close to the bank, move through the water. The dogs can’t track us that way.”
She’s managing, but I sense her exhaustion. She’s fading fast. Once her adrenaline wears off, she’ll be in too much pain to continue.
With a groan, I bend and hook an arm beneath her knees, my other around her back, and lift her against my chest.
“Shit—Grayson.” Her weak protest fades just as quickly, and she settles into my arms. As her head rests against my shoulder, I cradle her closer, something foreign tightening my chest.
“I got you,” I say to her.
I smile to myself. Nurture is a strange thing.
Over the past year, my objective hasn’t always been clear, yet there was one constant:
Her.
She’s become my singular purpose in this world—a world that deprived me early on, that fashioned me into a killer, and now wants to punish its own creation.
I owe this world nothing.
But for her, I have something to offer, something only I can give.
She is my salvation.
