Page 64 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Oxygen is precious at this point. It burns in my chest. My lungs are at half capacity at best. I hold on to every bubble of air, only releasing it in small increments. I focus all my attention on keeping him locked in my arms and keeping my breath in my body. His elbow slams hard into my ribs, and sharp pain licks through my bones. I’ve broken a rib, probably, maybe two, but nothing hurts more than the bubble of air that escapes my lips.

I’ve got less than a single breath left inside of me. The pressure is intense, and my eardrums feel like they might burst. I can feel my lungs straining, wanting desperately to expand.

We thrash together in the river. Our bodies spin, turn, until I can’t tell if I’m upward or down. I ignore the ache in my lungs, the pain in my body, the burning in my eyes. I cling to his body with everything I have.

I can’t let him resurface. I can’t let him finish what he started. I have to keep Rory safe. I have to keep Roland safe. I have to…

His body goes limp. Just like that, my arms feel weightless, as though I’m holding nothing more than a pile of laundry. He burps out a bubble of air, and his heavy, dead weight sinks to the floor.

I release him. The white of his skin gets sucked into the cold darkness.

Never try to outswim a Limehouse boy from the docks.

I go into full survival mode now. My limbs are growing heavy and threaten to follow him. My chest is on fire. I scratch at the water and climb. I think I’m going toward the surface, but I can’t be sure. For all I know, I could be going deeper. There’s nothing but inky blackness above, inky blackness below. I scramble and my desperate lungs gulp in seawater. I feel my consciousness fading to a black, noisy hum.

Just a little more, I think. Just a little farther…

I kick and claw my way up until I break the surface. The murky, sour London air is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I choke on it, gasping, coughing, as my lungs suck it down greedily.

My head is spinning. I’m incredibly disoriented. There’s a dock a couple of meters away. I push my sluggish muscles, even though my very blood burns with the lack of oxygen, and swim to the dock. It creaks as I climb up on it, and I savor the solid wood under my hands and knees. I retch, my stomach expelling salt water. Even the act of clenching my gut sends shooting pain through my ribs.

Okay. Get it together. I’m shaky, but I’m alive. I have to find Roland and Rory. I have to make sure they’re okay. I find a ladder, and my fingers scratch on the barnacles as I climb it. My bare feet leave wet traces on the walkway as I make my way down. The tide pulled me down the river, and I pass a few streetlamps before I see them—two figures crouched down under the lamplight.

I pick up the pace until I’ve reached them. Rory is wide-eyed and panting lightly in Roland’s arms. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” Rory says, but her vision is unfocused and her face is white.

Roland cradles her against his chest. When he looks up at me, his eyebrows knit. “Where’s the guy?”

I half shrug. “The river took him.”

If he reads between my lines, he doesn’t make a note of it. Roland simply nods once in confirmation. I had a job to do. I did it. That’s all there is to say about that.

Roland’s eyes lock on mine meaningfully, and he tilts his head to the side to motion me around. I step beside them when I see it. The handle of a knife sticks out of Rory’s side, right above her hip. For a second, I don’t understand why she isn’t screaming, and then I realize—she’s in shock. She probably can’t even feel it. Even as the fabric on her shirt turns crimson, she remains utterly unaware.

“She’s fine,” Roland says, his voice hardened. He’s staying calm for her sake. Now is not the time to frighten her anymore. “I called an ambulance,” he adds to me, under his breath.

I nod. My stomach constricts. I’m sick with worry now. I sit down beside them, collapsing gracelessly on the ground.

Dear God, I pray quietly, please let Rory be okay. Please. Please.

In the distance, sirens begin their pitchy wail.

34

Roland

I can’t tear my eyes away from the windows. My graze follows the stained glass depictions of an eagle stretching its gold-tipped wings with the royal crown above it. The words Per ardua ad astra encircle the bird.. Through adversity to the stars.

The King Edward VII’s Hospital is discreet, private, and just about the best comfort and care one can get. The walls are polished hardwood, which makes the whole place feel less like a hospital and more like a country club. Nurses occasionally walk by with muffled voices and clicking heels, but no one disturbs Ben or me.

I’m incredibly sober at this point—fear is a hell of a hangover cure. I still clutch my small plastic cup of ice water. Ben sits quietly beside me. His clothes are still sopping wet, even though he now has a terry cloth over his shoulders, and every now and then, I hear a plink of Thames water hit the ground.

He’s holding his side. He hasn’t let go of it since we got here. “Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” I ask him.

“I’m fine,” he says shortly. His gaze is also fixed ahead.

Neither of us has said a lot to each other in the past hour. We’re just waiting for those damn doors to open. I need to hear something—anything. I need to know Rory is okay.

---