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I cried out in worry for my pet, but I didn’t have time to go save her, not with Emmet already getting his bearings.
I darted out the doors onto the deck, breathing heavily, the sharp pain in my side making every inhale agony.
Running out the back door was not my first choice. But to get out the front door, I’d have to go past Emmet and risk him grabbing me. I’d kicked him in the balls, but I unfortunately hadn’t cut them off. He would recover quickly. Not quick enough for me to run down my long drive to my closest neighbor. I couldn’t remember where I put my car keys either.
But running out the back, down the stairs, and onto the beach would actually get me to help quicker, with my closest neighbor having beach access too. The stairs to their place was maybe a five-minute walk.
I really hoped they were home. And armed.
Except I’d misjudged some shit. Like how long it took for my pregnant ass to rush down the stairs. And run. In bare feet. In the sand.
I was not in good shape. My lungs were squished up with all my other organs, and it was almost impossible to catch my breath.
No one was on the beach today.
Just my fucking luck.
It was still warm, but it had been windy as fuck all day. Not great swimming weather, the waves wild and dangerous. Granted, not that many people swam in this area anyway. This corner of the beach was mostly frequented by the people who actually lived in the cottages that dotted the coastline.
I’d also misjudged how long it would take for Emmet to recover from a kick to the balls and how quickly he’d be able to run down the stairs and catch up with me.
My body seized when he grabbed a hold of me, yanking me backward viciously so my head hurtled against his shoulder, and I tasted blood as my teeth sank into my tongue.
“No fucking way you’re getting away from me now, Fi darling,” he drawled in my ear while I struggled. “I’ve been waiting for fucking years to finish you.”
His hand went to the swell of my stomach, and I gagged at him touching me there, touching my fucking baby. Fire singed my throat with the need to protect her by any means necessary, but fear clutched my heart as my struggles were nothing against the man used to hurting women.
“It’s even better now that I can ruin you,” he whispered. “Take it all from you. From the man who thought he could best me. Maybe I’ll take everything.”
He fisted the dress I was wearing, bunching it up to expose my legs, my thighs, and then my underwear.
I tasted bile and struggled harder, screaming like a banshee on the off chance someone was nearby. But the wind was still whistling, the waves were crashing against the rocks of the cove, and my scream got sucked away by the ocean.
Still, I battled like crazy, scratching, kicking, snapping my teeth as I tried to bite him.
His hands entered my underwear just as I got the right angle to bend my head to where his other arm was bracing against my upper chest. I didn’t hesitate to sink my teeth into the flesh of his arm, tasting the coppery tang of blood. I didn’t let go, ripping at his bitter and rubbery flesh with vigor. I would devour him piece by piece if that’s what it took.
“Fucking bitch!” he snarled, yanking his arm away, blood flying everywhere as he did so. I spat out the meat from him that remained in my mouth, satisfied by his scream of pain.
He pushed me forward brutally, and I stumbled, trying to catch myself but landing painfully on my knees and wrists half in the surf, where the sand wasn’t soft and pliable but more like concrete.
Pain splintered against my wrists and kneecaps, and my stomach seized. I didn’t know if that was in fear or if it meant the baby was in distress. I had to believe she was stronger than that. She could handle a few knocks and bumps. She would survive.
I crawled forward, unable to get on my legs. The waves crashed into my face, and I coughed as I inhaled seawater.
Why I was going into the ocean, farther away from civilization and help, made no sense. But I was looking for the solace of salt water. The protection it offered.
Except when you had a violent ex-husband obviously hell-bent on killing you, the ocean only offered death.
He crashed through the waves and took hold of me, shaking me like a rag doll, shoving me farther into the water.
First, the waves washed against me, and I managed to gulp in desperate snatches of air before my face plunged back into the water. Emmet was struggling to keep me down at first, because of the waves, because of the way I was fighting and flailing. But he found his footing. He was stronger, had a firmer hold on me, enough water to keep me in. There was no respite of salty air in my lungs. No, there was burning, there was trying to hold my breath and fight at the same time.
I was a strong swimmer. I’d grown up on the beach, diving down, testing my limits, holding my breath for as long as I could just to see what would happen. And then, in my darker days, when I was still bleeding, bruised, and empty, I’d go into the large swimming pool in our mansion and stay underwater for as long as I could. For longer than I could. I’d relish the burn, the black spots in my eyes, the way my lungs were about to explode. I’d taste the proximity of death, tease myself with it before my body forced me upward. Unless I wanted to dive into the deep end with weights attached to my ankles, I wouldn’t meet death because I had a survival instinct. Even when my mind was tempted to give up, my body wouldn’t let me.
With that kind of practice, I managed to hold my breath for a long time. What felt like fucking years. But eventually my body gave up, even as my mind screamed to fight. To live.
Salt water entered my lungs as a hand pressed into the back of my head, holding me down. I ached to cough, to expel the water and to welcome in air, but the more my body convulsed, the more water that entered. It felt like my chest was going to explode. My head throbbed, and my eyes burned like a thousand sons of bitches.
