Page 88 of Reign

I’ve made it! I’m on the other side!

I start curving my arms around the smooth curve of the boat before scanning for Sabine. I slip twice, lose my grip once, but at last, I crawl up enough so only a third of my body is still in the water.

And I stare straight ahead.

The dock is deserted, the tall lamps at the end casting fading, golden halos over a slumped, still form.

“Chase,” I whisper, then: “CHASE!”

I paddle furiously, using numbed, stiff fingers that no longer listen to commands, but my arms sure do. I kick uselessly, then finally find the clumsy rhythm Eden had me practice with a pool noodle that gets me moving in the direction I need, with the help of the lake’s gentle current.

I have no sense of time but know that I’m cold. Covered in winter water. Growing snowflakes that give off frostbitten sparkles under the sleepy, lowering moon, but Chase is dying.

Dying. Not dead. He can’t be dead.

“Chase!” I try again, but he doesn’t twitch or make a sound.

I kick up enough water that it arcs over my body and into my eyes, but I get closer. Time ticks down, but picturing Chase’s blood spilling onto the wood acts as the perfect impetus to keep my exhausted limbs submerged and kicking.

When the scull bumps against the dock, I slide back into the water, clinging to the dock and shuffling to the ladder with a shaking, trembling grip.

The instant I’m on the dock, I launch over to Chase and drop to my knees beside him.

“Chase,” I whisper through bloodless, frozen lips. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t respond. I don’t waste time searching his face, instead looking for the wound. My hands are white—too white—and I can’t feel anything. I have to squint. My jaw slams shut with the amount of effort I’m putting into moving him onto his back, lifting fabric and probing skin.

Move. Move, damn it!

Blood seeps through the gaps between my fingers when I reach his stomach. Gasping, crying, I press into it, stanching the flow.

“What the…?”

I whip my head to the sound. “Call 9-1-1!”

The boy, dressed in his rower’s training gear and so lanky he must be a freshman, gapes from the boat house.

“Move, damn it!” I scream. “Call an ambulance or I will throw this oar like a javelin into your face!”

His duffel drops to his feet. He scampers into the boathouse.

I turn back to Chase, droplets from the tips of my hair becoming teardrops on his pale, bloodless face. “You’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

My jaw won’t stop shaking. My body won’t stop shivering.

But I won’t stop.

I bend my forehead to his, and I hold on.

30

Callie

Soft beeps follow the tread of footsteps before gentle hands lift my arm, turning it, then setting it delicately on my stomach.

My eyes slowly open, a burst of white solidifying into walls, a door, and someone snoozing in a chair.

I cough at the sudden dryness in my throat and attempt to lift onto my elbows.

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