20. She’s Already Gone
20
SHE’S ALREADY GONE
EZRA
The sound of the engine roaring near the island hits my ears first. It’s loud, too loud, and immediately wrong. I stand in the lighthouse, frozen for a second, every instinct screaming at me to move.
I drop the bag of drugs I’ve been carefully stashing and sprint out the door. The cold wind slaps my face as I run toward the shore, my boots slipping slightly on the damp ground. The pier comes into view, and I see her.
Kruz .
She’s in the water, flailing, her head barely breaking the surface as the boat’s wake churns the ocean into a violent mess around her.
“ Shit! ” I bellow, sprinting faster.
I don’t care that whoever is on the boat might see me. The only thing I care about is getting to Kruz. I’ll deal with whatever comes after, in whatever way necessary.
My feet pound against the pier as I race to the edge, ripping off my jacket and boots in one quick motion. I don’t think, I just dive.
The icy water steals my breath as I fight against the current. My arms cut through the waves as I push toward her, the chaos of the wake pulling me in every direction. She’s going under again, her limbs weak, her movements slowing.
“Kruz!” I shout, though my voice is lost in the roar of the water.
I reach her just as she slips under, my hand wrapping around her arm. Her skin is cold, far too cold, and I drag her up, her head breaking the surface with a gasp and a cough. I know being caught in this is just as dangerous for me as it is for her, but I’d rather risk dying with her than face living without her.
“Got you,” I say, my voice determined as I grip her tightly. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t respond, barely conscious as I haul her back toward the shore. The waves fight me the whole way, but I don’t let go. I can’t.
By the time I get her onto the rocky beach, my arms are shaking, and my breath comes in harsh gasps. I collapse beside her for a second, checking her pulse, her breathing. She’s alive—barely—but the cold is sapping what little strength she has left.
She was in the water for much longer than I was.
I’m about to pick her up and carry her back to the cottage when I hear it: voices. Shouting. The crunch of boots on the shell-covered shoreline.
I glance up and see them—two men, armed, scanning the shore. They’re from the boat. And they’re not here by accident.
“I love you so fucking much,” I whisper to Kruz, though I know she’s too out of it to respond.
I pull a knife from my belt and crouch low, moving toward the shadows of the rocks. My heart pounds, not from fear, but from rage. They’re here for the drugs, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get them.
I should have known someone would come looking. A shipment like that doesn’t just disappear without consequences. These men aren’t scouts or messengers—they’re enforcers, sent to clean up loose ends. And right now, I’m the only loose end they can see.
They don’t call out, don’t try to negotiate. They aren’t here for words. To them, I’m just an obstacle, something to be removed. If I know anything about the people who deal in this kind of business, it’s that they don’t leave anything to chance. No witnesses. No survivors.
The first man spots me just as I get close. His gun is already rising, his finger curling around the trigger, but I’m faster, slamming into him and driving the knife into his gut. He chokes on a gasp, his body jerking as I twist the blade deep, cutting through muscle and sinew. His fingers scrabble weakly at my arm, trying to push me away, but I don’t let up. I drive my forearm against his throat, pinning him back as I wrench the knife free. He slumps forward, dead weight against me, and I shove him off just as the second man reacts.
Gunfire erupts, deafening in the open air. A white-hot bolt of pain sears through my arm as the bullet tears through flesh. The force of it knocks me back a step, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
He fires again, but I’m already moving, adrenaline drowning out the pain. The shot misses, kicking up sand and rock as I close the distance. I hear him curse, fumbling to adjust his aim, but I’m on him before he can fire again. My knife slashes upward, catching him across the forearm. He yells, the gun jerking from his grip, and I don’t give him a chance to recover. I slam into him, forcing him back. He stumbles, and I follow, pressing the blade to his throat.
His eyes widen, his mouth parting like he might try to beg. But it’s too late for that.
I drive the knife home.
He gurgles, hands clawing at his ruined throat as he collapses to his knees. Blood spills hot over my fingers, soaking into the sand beneath him. His body convulses once, twice—then he’s still.
I stand there for a moment, panting, my pulse roaring in my ears. The scent of blood thickens the air, mingling with the salt of the ocean. The bodies lie motionless at my feet, their lives snuffed out in an instant.
I barely register the pain in my arm, the blood dripping down my sleeve, staining my fingers.
I turn away and stagger back toward Kruz.
She’s still on the beach, her breathing shallow, her lips pale.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping to my knees beside her.
The fight didn’t take long, but every second feels like an eternity now. The cold has already taken too much from her, and I don’t know how much longer she can hold on.
The mere thought of losing her now sends me into a downward spiral.
I hate this fucking world; a world in which it doesn’t matter how far away I drag her, there is no semblance of safety and I was stupid for thinking otherwise.
I scoop her up, cradling her against my chest as I stumble back toward the cottage. My arm screams in protest, but I ignore it, my focus entirely on her.
“You’re okay, baby,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “You’re going to be okay.”
The cottage comes into view, and I kick the door open with my foot, rushing her to the fire. I set her down gently, wrapping her in every blanket I can find before collapsing beside her.
The pain in my arm is blinding now, but I push it aside. All that matters is her. I lean close, my hand brushing against her icy cheek.
“Kruz,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Stay with me. Please .”
6 months prior
She’s already gone before I realize it.
I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know how it happened.
I just know that one day, I woke up, and she wasn’t there.
And the worst part is, I don’t think she ever really wanted to leave.
She just… stopped reaching for me. And I let her.
Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?
I let her drift.
I tell myself it’s better this way. That I was never going to be what she needed. That I did the right thing by holding back, by keeping my secrets, by never letting her see the full weight of what I carry.
But none of that stops the ache in my chest when I roll over and the bed is cold.
It doesn’t stop the phantom feeling of her fingertips against my skin.
It doesn’t stop me from wanting her.
But I won’t chase her.
It’s safer this way.
Better.
For her.