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Once I’ve unpacked, there’s really nothing left to do except look for Callum.
I slink downstairs, wondering if I should maybe apologize. On the one hand, he totally had it coming. On the other, I did feel a little guilty when his whole face started to swell up, and he was clutching and clawing at his throat.
I snacked on strawberries all morning, thinking it would give him hives. Maybe ruin a few of our stupid wedding photos.
The actual effect was far more dramatic. If Imogen Griffin hadn’t had an epi-pen stashed in her Birkin bag, I might be a widow right now instead of a wife. She ran to her son, jamming the uncapped needle into his thigh, while Fergus called an ambulance.
However, when I reach the pool deck, I see that Callum looks completely recovered. He’s not resting at all, but swimming laps. His arm cuts through the water like a knife, brilliant droplets sparkling in his dark hair. His body looks lean and powerful as he dives under the water, pushes off the wall, and rockets half the length of the pool before having to come up for air.
I sit down on one of the deck chairs, watching him swim.
It’s actually pretty amazing how long he can hold his breath underwater. I guess the Griffins must be part dolphin.
I watch him swim a dozen more laps, only realizing how much time has passed when he stops abruptly, leaning his arms on the edge of the pool and shaking water out of his eyes. He looks up at me, fixing me with an unfriendly expression.
“There you are.”
“Yup. Here I am. I put my stuff in your room.”
I don’t call it “our” room. It doesn’t feel like that at all.
Callum looks equally irritated at the prospect of sharing close quarters.
“We don’t have to stay here forever,” he says mutinously. “After the election, we can start looking for our own place. Then we can have separate rooms, if you prefer.”
I nod. “That might be better.”
“I’m going to finish up,” Callum says, readying himself to push off the wall again.
“Okay.”
“Oh, but one thing first.”
“What?”
He beckons for me to come closer.
I walk over to the side of the pool, still distracted by the question of whether I should say sorry or not.
Callum’s hand shoots up and closes around my wrist. With a jerk, he yanks me down into the water, and wraps his iron-clad arms around me.
I’m so surprised that I yelp, letting out a breath instead of sucking one in. The water closes over my head, colder than I expected. Callum’s arms squeeze me hard, pinning my arms against my sides so I can’t move them at all.
The pool is too deep for my feet to touch. Callum’s weight drags me down like an anvil. He’s squeezing me like a snake, crushing me against his body.
I’m trying to squirm and struggle, but there’s nothing for me to kick against, and my arms are pinned. My lungs are burning, heaving, trying to force me to inhale, even though I know I’ll suck in a mouthful of chlorinated water.
My eyes open involuntarily. All I can see is bright teal, turbulent from my useless struggles. Callum is going to kill me. He’s going to drown me right now. This is the last thing I’ll ever see—the last bit of my air, rising to the surface in silvery bubbles.
I’m twitching, jerking, starting to go limp as inky spots burst in front of my eyes.
Then he finally releases me.
I pop to the surface, gasping and coughing. I’m exhausted from fighting him. It’s hard to tread water with my soaking wet jeans and t-shirt dragging me down.
He rises next to me, just out of reach of my flailing arms.
“You—you FUCK!” I shout, trying to hit him.
