Page 81 of What Remains

“You mean, relax?”

She shakes her head, then cups her breasts, so that’s, well . . . not what I needed to see. “My boobs are boobing.”

They most certainly are. Fuck.

“I’m wearing my favorite bikini and should feel good. Like myself.” She lifts her shoulders, letting go of her breasts.

But I still can’t breathe. Because it’s starting to click what the problem is, and I’m going to throw up.

“I don’t want those bastards to have power over me. To take anything away. To make me hate being in a bikini just because they made me take mine off and wear that jumpsuit,” she whispers, her voice catching.

My hands curl at my sides as I rise, ready to go to war for her. But they’re dead. They’re fucking dead already.

I also want to take her into my arms and hold her, but we have too many eyes on us, and she won’t want her dad to worry about her.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, walking over to her. I keep my back to the pool, eyes set on her and her alone.

She undoes the knot of the skirt and tosses it. “Help me wash away the memories of what happened.” Her voice breaks, nearly damaging my fragile sanity along with it. “Get me out of that dark place and away from them. Bring me back here.”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree without a second thought, because I’ll do anything for her.

She nods reluctantly, kicks off her sandals, then she gets a running start and dives into the deep end.

I follow her, knowing damn well I’ll follow this woman anywhere.

Once in the pool, I remain beneath the water and open my eyes to find her.

She’s not far away, facing me with eyes open while swimming in place.

My pulse slows, and the noise fades.

It’s just the two of us, trying to cut the cord on what happened on that island. An attempt to let go and wash it all away as if we’re in a baptism pool. Don’t think that’s how it works, but . . .

She closes the space between us and reaches for my hand. I lace our fingers together as we swim to the top. We break the surface, and she rapidly blinks her wet lashes, watching me closely.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“I’m better now.” Her gaze slides over my wet T-shirt that’s glued to my chest, and the way she’s looking at me . . .

What the hell is happening with us lately?

“Everything all right?”

Wyatt.

Shit.

I swivel around to find him on approach with Emory, and she takes off, swimming over to Gwen, splashing all of us.

“We’re fine,” Gwen answers while reaching for her sister. “I feel . . . cleansed, if that makes sense.”

“Oh.” Wyatt drags his hands through his wet hair, his throat moving with a visible swallow in understanding. “Uh, good.”

The music stops a beat later, and we all turn to see Jack at the edge of the deep end, waving us over. “How about a little friendly competition? Some underwater drills? Army. Navy.” He lifts his chin, eyeing me. “I suppose even Chair Force can join in.”

Like I haven’t heard that Air Force joke before. Or that all of us pilots are supposedly soft. I mean, in all fairness, some of us are. But Jack knows damn well what I’m capable of, he just enjoys messing around with me.

“Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t the one blasting ‘Barbie Girl’ from the inside of a Humvee while⁠—”