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I’m burning.
I have to cool down.
I shove at the blanket and try to force myself out of Emerson’s arms, but he’s too strong.
“Stay here.”
“I’m boiling,” I gasp.
“No, you’re not. Your body can’t regulate at the moment, little painter. You got too cold in the water. It’s misjudging the heat.”
“Do.” The shivering is truly awful. “You promise.”
“Yes.”
It’s hard to believe him when my skin is on fire and my blood is overheating in my veins. If that were really true, Emerson would have to let go. He doesn’t. His arms close firmly around me and stay and stay and stay.
Being awake is even harder. The heat peaks, scorching my hair and the top of my head. I stop trying to open my eyes and drift against his shoulder in a silver sea. He reaches for something in his backpack and soft cloth brushes over my face. My heartbeats get louder. Slower. They’re like white noise. Waves, maybe. Emerson lowers me down. The mat, I think. It feels as forgiving as a mattress. I’m drifting, lulled further and further from him. Something light as air settles around my shoulders.
I hear him get up. Emerson’s footsteps move quietly over the rock. The ocean is a loud rush but I still hear him. I’ll always be able to hear him. I know that in a sure, hazy way. Zippers and clips. Clips and zippers. His backpack. I claw my way back to consciousness and force my eyes open.
“When are they coming?” Someone has to be on their way. Emerson is rich. He must have people he can call to come retrieve him and his hostage girlfriend from the ocean.
His eyes flicker in the firelight. “That’s the only exit.” Emerson points to the water lapping against the curved ceiling. “The water goes out with the tide in the morning.”
My mind is still mushy. Still nothing. Still drowning in salt. Warm salt, at least.
Emerson comes back to me and crouches down to my level, a shiny rectangle in his hand, a water bottle in the other. A Power Bar. I shake my head against the cloud underneath me.
“Up,” he says. And then he pulls me to sitting and makes me drink the water. Half of it in small, painstaking sips. It makes my stomach hurt. When I’m too tired to take it, I turn my head away. “That’s enough for now, little painter.” Emerson lowers my head back down and walks away.
At first I’m too tired to care. He’s probably pissed at me for running away. I almost drowned. He has every right. But as the moments pass, my energy comes back. I feel a restless hum in my feet that spreads upward until I can breathe again.
Pissed or not, I don’t want to be alone.
I took it for granted, didn’t I? That cushy prison in Emerson’s house, with its bed and its art studio and its warmth.
I sit back up, the blanket crinkling around me, and rub at my eyes. My vision is so blurry that it takes a minute to find Emerson in the firelight.
He sits at the edge of the rock about ten feet from the mat. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the blanket or the louder rustle when I stand. Fine. So he is angry. I try to summon the will to blame him for this. He’s the one who kept me captive. But something about his posture makes me hesitate.
I pick my way across the rock to him, watching his profile in the glow from the flames. Everything about him is gorgeous in the warmth of the light. He’s dressed in simple, dry clothes, his wetsuit spread out on the rock behind him.
“Emerson.”
No movement. He’s the statue now, his gaze locked on the water. My heart kicks up. I can’t stand it if he won’t talk to me. I’d rather fight.
A few steps closer.
He’s trembling.
Embarrassment burns my face. He’s shaking with rage. At me. And I’m here in this space with him. No way out.
I take the final steps anyway and my stomach drops.
His eyes aren’t fiery with anger. They’re not even narrowed. His face is open, expression blank. Those captivating eyes are fixed on that curve of rock and the water touching them with something like fear. With something like obsession, only much darker. Like he might leap into it and disappear. Like he’s trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
I drop to my knees at his side. I’ve never seen Emerson tremble like this. As if he’s at the very limit of his control. As if he might snap or break or worse.
“Emerson,” I say again. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
