Page 55 of Break Out the Girl

The cold, untouchable aristocrat who looks at the world like it’s beneath his boots is tearing himself apart in a freezing ocean just because I asked him for help.

It feels like a piece of my own soul is out there drowning, and if he goes under, he’s taking my heart with him.

“We can’t leave him!” I shriek, my voice cracking with panic. “He’s fighting that thing for us!”

The thread between me and François pulls taut.

Don’t you fucking dare, François de Vaux. Don’t you dare leave me now I’ve just got to like you.

“We have to move Rory!” Tally growls back, his golden wolf-eyes flashing with desperation as he looks over his shoulder at me. “Look up at the decks!” He gestures his head toward the towering silhouette of the yacht.

I follow his gaze and my blood runs cold. The crane pulleys are moving again. Two more heavy rubber Zodiacs hit the ocean surface packed to the brim with guards wielding some heavy-fucking-duty guns.

Shit.

I feel the presence of Basil behind me. A hundred-foot sea serpent has a better chance of survival in this war-torn sea than the kid does.

And London. Does he have Sky?

Tally’s right. We have to go.

A heavy sob rips from my chest, hot tears spilling over my cheeks, as the churning water turns darker, thicker with blood.

And we leave.

What about the old adage ‘never leave a man behind’? I guess there’s another one more appropriate in this circumstance. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

I don’t say another word as The Carnivàle and the monsters are once again shrouded with fog as we cut through the water.

But the pain behind my sternum is unrelenting.

“AURORA!”

Blink.

“Find out where London is,” Tally instructs me.

Right. Concentrate.

“Have you seen the walkie, Basil?” I croak.

He finds it dropped in a puddle of sea water, but it’s still working. “London, are you there? What’s happening?” I turn to Basil. “Keep looking for them.”

Once again, I start yelling down the walkie-talkie. Why isn’t he answering?

“There! Look!” Basil’s high voice cuts through my grief, his small hand pointing out toward the open water on our starboard side. “That’s our boat, right?”

Through a narrow seam in the rolling gray mist, barely visible against the dark swell is a little wooden dinghy.

London is heaving on the oars with everything he’s got.

Sky?

I don’t see her, but the dinghy is riding dangerously low in the water. That has to mean something.

Tally slams the throttle all the way forward. The twin jet engines let out a shriek, the nose lifting out of the water as we rocket toward the dinghy to intercept it.

I spin around in my seat, looking back over the stern. The guards with guns could be just seconds behind us. But the fog keeps me from seeing anything.