Time bleeds out.
Then—finally—we breach the surface, both of us gasping for air.
I suck in gulp after heaving gulp, regaining some semblance of life. But Isla struggles. Choking. Retching.
“Breathe.” I don’t let her go, my hold unforgiving around her waist as I fight to keep us afloat. “I’ve got you.”
She clings to me like a lifeline instead of the inherited anchor I’ve become.
“Just breathe.” I scan our surrounds. Life preservers litter the water in between us and the yacht, ten yards away and drifting farther.
A cluster of crew lines the swim platform, faces taut with alarm, hands clutching their radios. A mechanical arm unfolds from the foredeck, steel cables glinting in the sunlight as it lowers the rescue boat down the side of the yacht.
I lean us forward, trying to propel us toward the closest life preserver as Isla continues to choke and retch.
“The crew are on the way.” I keep kicking, not letting the trembling dead weight of her body sink under the surface. “Just hold on.”
The RIB slams into the water. Mitch jumps aboard. Two others join him. The engine roars to life and the boat tears across the softening wake toward us.
“You hear that?” I tread water and hold her close. “Help is coming.”
She whimpers.
Fuckingwhimpers.
Then the boat is in front of us, hands reach out, and Isla is hauled over the side.
I follow, pulled up by rough arms to find her hunched on the floor, dripping, breathing ragged. I stumble to maintain my footing as the RIB takes off toward the yacht, my gaze stuck on the blanket of hair shielding her face, her hands splayed before her as she sways and splutters.
I’ve never seen anyone so vulnerable. So goddamn shattered.
The fact it’s Isla, the woman I’ve always known to be a powerhouse in cock-hardening heels, makes me fucking nauseous.
I snatch a towel from one of the deckhands and drop beside her, wrapping it around her trembling body. “You’re safe.”
She curls away from me, the dismissal inflicting a mortal wound.
We reach the yacht before I can process what the fuck to do.
Mitch grabs her, handing her to a deckhand waiting at the lowered swim platform who places her on her feet like she isn’t seconds from collapse.
Motherfucking idiot.
I jump from the RIB and scoop her up. She’s freezing. Shaking. Breathing in shallow, broken bursts.
Shock.
I carry her into the lounge area and fall to my knees on the floor, cradling her in my lap.
She’s limp against me. Soaked through. I need to get her warm. Get her lucid.
“Towels,” I bark.
They come instantly, the crew offering them from every angle.
I peel the soaked blazer from her shoulders. Her blouse clings to her skin, sheer and drenched. I wrap her in thick material, swaddling it around her trembling frame, then draw her into my chest.
“Out,” I snap to the milling crowd. “Now.”