Page 74 of Inked Athena

Without another word or look back, Myles begins to wade into the lake, aiming in the rough direction of the rocking boat. But it’s like the storm is working against us. The rain comes down harder and seeing farther than the water’s edge is near impossible. Myles is reduced to a blur, a shadow on shadows.

“B-be c-c-careful!” I stammer, my teeth chattering from the cold.

How much worse must it be for Samuil?

“Dinna fash, lass,” Mr. Morris croons, feeding Myles more of the rope’s slack. “He’ll be alright. He’s a brawny man, yer Samuil.”

Normally, I’d say the same thing. Except we’re in the throes of the most violent Highlands storm I’ve seen yet and I’m finding it hard to cling to hope.

Especially because Samuil still hasn’t come up for air.

“Bring him back to me, Myles,” I croak just as Myles dives into the depths of the lake.

I can only stand frozen, eyes fixed on the spot where I think Myles disappeared. Where I think Samuil disappeared.

This can’t be the end. Samuil Litvinov is too stubborn to die.

Still, my heart aches with the possibility that we might not have another conversation. That he might never wrap his arms around me and surround me with his solid warmth.

That he might never meet his child.

I think I’m crying, but I can’t tell because of the rain. My entire world is submerged in water, and there’s nothing I can do but let it rinse me clean.

Then there’s a disruption. A wave that moves in the wrong direction. Ripples. More sharp, angular shadows breaking the surface, ducking below. Rising up. Falling down.

The only reason I don’t dive in is because Mr. Morris grabs my arm.

“Whoa there, lass. Myles may be able to drag in one body, but let’s not give him another one.”

Body. The word is an ice pick to my heart. Samuil is more than a body. He’s alive. He has to be.

“Myles!” I scream. “Do you have him?”

The rope pings, taut and moaning. Mr. Morris starts to heave, but he’s huffing from the effort. Desperate for something to do, I grip the rough-hewn rope and pull with all my might.

Then: more motion. Myles’s white face bobs just above the surface of the water. I can’t make out much more than that. I just close my eyes and tug as hard as I possibly can.

It isn’t until he’s closer that I realize Samuil is draped lifelessly across Myles’s back.

“No!” I cry, tearing forward.

But Myles holds up his hand. “He’s alive,” he pants. “I feel him breathing.”

He drags Samuil onto the sloshy grass and rolls him onto his side. Immediately, water bursts out of Sam’s mouth as he coughs and retches.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He’s alive.

I drop to my knees in front of him. “Samuil.”

He rolls to one side, breathing hard.

But Myles doesn’t give him any time to recover.

“‘Alright?’” he roars. “I hope he’s not alright! It would serve him right for— What the fuck were you thinking, you jackass?! Drunk boating? In a storm? At fucking pitch black midnight? Who the hell do you think you are, fucking Poseidon? You could have died!”

Samuil raises his head an inch. His eyes meet mine. He’s drunk. I see it in the red of his eyes. I can also see that nearly dying is sobering him up fast.

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