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Whoever said drowning was a peaceful way to die was a lying sack of shit.
And no way was I going to die.
No way was Emmet going to kill me.
And no fucking way was he going to kill my baby.
I reached up and sank my nails into the hands holding me, scoring through skin and flesh. There was a muffled curse of pain. He didn’t entirely let me go, but his grip loosened.
Enough for me to pull myself away from him, stand up. Not enough time for me to run against the waves. I coughed and spluttered, greedily sucking in as much air as I could but unable to get enough to fill my lungs. My limbs felt weak, deprived of oxygen, my head swam, and the world tilted. But I persisted, pushing against the waves, holding my stomach.
The baby kicked, as if urging me on, reminding me that she was doing her part and I needed to do mine.
Emmet grabbed a hold of me. But he didn’t push me back down into the water. He tried to hold me flush against his body. I didn’t hesitate to slam my head back, making contact with his nose and hearing a satisfying crunch. Black spots danced in my vision as pain erupted in my skull from the impact.
I wrenched myself from his arms again. Now I had enough time to try to run against the waves. Probably not enough. At best, I’d broken his nose. But he was still stronger and fitter than me. He wasn’t recovering from almost drowning with a watermelon strapped to his stomach. He’d catch me again.
But I’d fight. And I’d figure out how to win.
The baby kicked again as if to say,“Fuck yeah, Mom!”
Sure, not many babies would be cursing from the womb, but if anyone was going to, it would be my daughter.
I’d make her proud.
As I ran, I braced for yet another impact, my body tense, still coughing.
Something flashed in my periphery, and there was a loud grunt, then a splash. There was no impact. No more hands on me. I did not fall in the water.
I turned around to see two bodies in the waves, writhing.
Someone had come to my aid.
Someone with blond hair wearing jeans and boots.
My husband.
Everything happened in slow motion but somehow still too quick for me to comprehend.
Kip was no longer struggling with Emmet. He had a hold of him, yanking him upward so they were both standing, and then there was a crack. One that seemed louder than the waves but certainly couldn’t be. I figured my brain manufactured the intensity of the sound, filled in the gaps. Because my eyes saw Kip grab Emmet’s head and chin and wrench them violently. I saw his neck move in an unnatural way and then his body go limp.
Yeah, I must’ve imagined the crack.
Or maybe it had been that loud.
I had never seen someone’s neck broken in real life before. Maybe it was loud as fuck.
A strange thing to focus on. I was probably in shock.
That explained why I just stood there, waves crashing against my waist, as Kip discarded Emmet's body and came sprinting through the water toward me.
His eyes were frantic. His jaw was hard, expression foreign. Cold. This was Kip from his past. The one he didn’t talk about. The Kip who’d ended lives on command, who was there lurking, waiting to be let out.
In one slow blink, my Kip was back.
He was holding my neck, and his mouth was moving.
“Fiona?” he said urgently. I had a feeling it wasn’t the first time he spoke, but it was the first time my brain let me comprehend it. There was still a low ringing in my ears, and I was still coughing up salt water. My lungs still burned. Kip gripped my neck hard. His other hand was on my belly.
