Page 132 of Ghosted

I catch her before she can pull herself up.

She claws at the ledge, coughing hard, dragging in messy little breaths like she’s earned them.

I lean close, smiling against the side of her face. “What was that you said?”

“Let me go.”

“No, no.” My grip tightens. “The other thing.”

Her chest jumps with another frantic inhale, water running down her face, her lashes, her open mouth. She glares at me through it, still furious, still trying to make hate look stronger than fear.

Stubborn fucking girl.

“You don’t want my hands on you,” I say. “You don’t want my eyes on you.” My smile fades into something colder. “You don’t even want to breathe the same fucking air as me.”

Her expression changes.

“So don’t,” I whisper.

She swings at me, but it’s messy now, panic making her movements wild. I catch her wrist and drag her back before she can get her feet under her.

“Johnny—”

“You don’t want my air?” I say, voice low and calm in a way that feels worse than yelling. “Fine, pretty thing.”

Her breath catches.

I smile.

“Stop fucking breathing it.”

Then I shove her under.

She fights immediately, both hands locking around my wrist as bubbles tear out of her mouth. Her knee catches me in the ribs, pain flashing hot enough to loosen my grip for one second before I force it back.

She breaks the surface once, sucking in air so hard it sounds painful.

“Johnny—”

I push her down again before she can finish my name.

Now she knows.

Now it isn’t anger. It’s survival.

Her hands claw at my arms, my neck, my face. Her feet scrape against the wall, but the tile is slick and she can’t get enough leverage to shove me off.

Water churns white around us as she gets her mouth above the surface again, barely, trying to scream before it turns into a wet, ugly gasp.

For a second, she panics so hard I almost lose her.

Almost.

I drag her back, one arm locked around her, my hand at the back of her neck. She bucks and twists against me, all frantic muscle and furious life, until it starts changing in pieces. The kicks lose rhythm. Her hands miss more than they grab.

Her nails drag down my arm one last time, weaker than before.

Maybe that should feel different.