Hitched(64)

I don’t think, I just charge Dean like a possessed woman, hand outstretched like I can fling lightning, which is ridiculous.

I might’ve been pissed enough in the wheelhouse that I could feel the static in my hair, but I’m not a freaking mutant superhero.

Even though I’m fairly certain I’m going to kill Dean for killing Blake.

“Wait, wait! I’m just trying to stay alive.” Dean holds up his hands and dodges, trips over a rope, and also falls off the side of the boat.

“For god’s sake,” Clint grunts behind me, “now I have to save two of them. Walk off the boat when it hits the shore in a minute, okay? And fucking stay there.”

But he grins and winks at me as he flies over the side of the boat, splashing into the water like this is all a game.

Except it’s not a game.

Dean could have knocked Blake unconscious.

And then he tossed him in the river.

“He could be drowning right now,” I sob to Chewpaca, who rubs his face against my shoulder and hums comfortingly, like he’s assuring me that Blake’s still awake and pulling hard toward shore.

But the water is choppy and I can’t see anything except waves and finally Clint’s head popping back above the surface. “Please, please,” I pray, heart racing with fear.

There’s a sudden jolt under our feet, and I spin to see we’ve run into the shore. When I turn back to the water, Clint is still swimming.

But now he’s also dragging someone behind him.

“Ohmygod.” My hands fly to cover my mouth.

It’s Blake.

A barely moving Blake who might need CPR the moment Clint pulls him onto the shore. I have to get to him. Now.

There’s a crack under my feet, furthering the urge to hurry. “Chewy! Off the boat! Come on, baby.” I lead the way down over the side, reaching back to help Chewy down onto the riverbank with tears streaming down my face.

I can’t stop them.

I just found my way back to Blake again.

I just told him the truth, told him how much I loved him.

And now he might be dead.

“Don’t be dead,” I sob as I race with Chewpaca through the bushes and bramble at the edge of the river toward where Clint is dragging Blake over the rocky riverbed. “Don’t be dead.”

“He’s fine. Just a flesh wound,” Clint says. “Better call 9-1-1 though.”

Without another word, he dives back into the river.

I drop to my knees next to Blake on the sandy part of the shore. He groans and puts a hand to his bleeding eyebrow. “Christ, that asshole has a hard head,” he says.

He’s dripping wet, his hair in his eyes and mixing with the blood still gushing out his wound, and he’s beautiful. Beautiful and alive, thank god.

I throw myself on him and hold tight.

“Hope,” he murmurs. “Baby. It’s all right. Shh. Don’t cry.”

“You’re okay,” I gasp.

In those few minutes when I feared the worst, my entire life had flashed before my eyes.

Lying awake in my sterile bedroom in my childhood home, more afraid to tell my parents that I’d wet the bed than I was of dragging a load of laundry down to the scary basement in the dark when I was just five years old.

My mother’s disappointment when I proved to be hopeless at ballet and violin and every lesson she dragged me to in the years before she gave up on drilling the tomboy out of her only daughter.

My father’s cool disapproval when I didn’t finish in the top ten of my graduating class.

Their utter frustration when they had to have the air conditioner repaired—again—when I got too close to it while playing in the yard.

Having to tell them both that I’d flunked out of vet school because I cried so hard when one of the pets I was caring for died that I burned out an entire row of computers in the lab.

Marrying Blake.

Divorcing Blake.

Coming home, and being forced to see him every day and fighting with him all the time because anger was the only way to keep the love from spilling over into my eyes, my voice, my touch.

Marrying him again. Kissing him in the courtroom.

Making love to my husband, this incredible man who’s taught me it’s safe to let down my walls.

I’m not done making love to him, not by a long shot.

In all ways that a person can make love—body, heart, and soul.

“Shh,” he says again, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. We got Chewpaca. Dean’s going down. Everything’s fine.”

“I just love you so much,” I sob. “I still have so much to learn about how to love you, but I love you. You’re my everything. Please don’t die.”

“I’m okay. I promise.” His arms tighten around me, a solid reassurance that he’s going to be fine, that he is fine, and I need to pull myself together and call for help. But where is my cell phone? And why can’t I quit crying?

“Sorry,” I say, sobbing harder.

“Don’t be sorry. Let it out. Let it all out, Hope. You don’t have to hold it in.”

And for the first time in my life, I do.

I let it all out.

All the frustration and fear and regret. It all rolls out of me while I hug the man I love, the man I trust, the man I’d do anything for, no matter what.