Chapter Thirty-Six
Karlyn
Cold.
Icy cold enveloped me, robbing me of the very air in my lungs as I sank deep into the dark, chilling, cavernous waters below.
Cold was no longer just a sensation—it was a living thing, an icy specter clawing through my veins and gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
I gasped, lungs burning as I tried to reach the surface, the fall’s relentless current battering me beneath the surface, tossing me between hope and oblivion.
The water pressed in on all sides, numbing my limbs, stealing away the last remnants of warmth and resolve, but something deep inside refused to yield.
Somewhere between drowning and waking, memories flickered—of laughter, of sun-warmed rides on summer roads, of secrets whispered in the dark.
For a heartbeat, the pain faded, replaced by a desperate yearning to hold on, to emerge from the suffocating blackness.
But the river was relentless, twisting me in its icy grasp, punishing every attempt to reach the surface.
Still, I fought, even as hope slipped through my numb fingers, clinging to the last thread of will that defined me—refusing to be lost, to let the darkness win.
Kicking, I fought, moving my leaden body toward the surface, determined to survive. That was what Jackson demanded above all else. That I survive. And I would.
I broke the surface with a desperate gasp, limbs trembling, vision blurred by the shock of cold and the violence of my plunge.
For a moment, I floated in limbo—caught between the relentless current and the aching need to breathe, to live.
The river battered me, but I clawed toward the light above, driven by memories and promise.
Even as exhaustion threatened to pull me back under, I found strength in the echo of Jackson’s words, in the knowledge that survival was not just for myself, but for those waiting on the other side.
The river spit me out onto a rocky shore, coughing and shuddering as my body tried to remember warmth.
I lay there, uncertain if the world around me was real or some cruel vision conjured by my mind.
But as the sky slowly lightened and air returned to my lungs, a fragile hope emerged—one shaped by pain and loss, but no less fierce for it.
As I lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, each breath a battle, I became acutely aware of the silence left in the wake of chaos.
The water still roared behind me, but in this fragile dawn, every sound felt distant, muffled by the relentless pounding of my heart.
I tried to move, testing aching muscles and bruised bones, uncertain if I could stand, let alone take the next step toward whatever waited beyond the river’s edge.
But as the first rays of sun crept across the horizon, painting the world in pale gold, I realized I was alive—battered, haunted, changed, but not broken.
The war within me was far from over, but for now, survival was enough.
And then I remembered Grace.
Moving faster that I thought possible, my own fear evaporated as I scrambled to my feet, my voice hoarse as I shouted, “GRACE!”
Scanning the roaring river, I searched, praying that she too had survived.
But my voice was swallowed by the rush of the river and the empty expanse beyond, echoing back at me with no reply.
Panic sent a jolt through my battered body as I scanned the landscape, searching for any sign of her—a shadow, a silhouette, any movement that could mean hope.
The ache of loss mingled with determination, driving me forward through pain and exhaustion.
I couldn’t give up now, not with Grace somewhere out there, not when survival meant more than just my own.
Then a head popped up and another, as I saw King holding onto Grace’s lifeless body as he fought the river’s current, trying to get her to shore. Wading back into the cold water, I reached for her, helping him to get her to safety.
She wasn’t moving. Her skin a pale blue, cold to the touch.
“Come on, baby.” King’s voice was hoarse as he tilted her head back, breathing life into her corpse.
Panic surged as I dropped to my knees, trying to remember everything Jackson had taught me about saving a life.
My hands shook as I searched for a pulse, ignoring the biting cold and the terror clawing at my chest. With King beside me, I started chest compressions, willing Grace to come back, counting each beat and silently begging for a miracle.
Time stretched, each second burning with hope and dread, until at last a faint gasp escaped her lips, fragile and small but unmistakably real.
Relief washed over me, fierce enough to bring tears, as Grace’s eyes fluttered open—proof that sometimes, even the relentless river could be defied.
Sitting back on his haunches, King sighed, his body wracked with the same tremors I ignored. Looking around, he frowned. “Where is Jackson?”
My body stilled, eyes wide as I turned toward the water’s edge. “What?”
Getting to his feet, he stumbled forward. “He jumped before I did.”
“What?” I gasped, slowly shaking my head.
“JACKSON!” King roared right before he dove back into the river, swimming toward something I hadn’t seen. Scanning the water, I saw him, floating face down, his body weaving and moving with the flow of the river.
My scream was a raw, guttural sound, ripped from the depths of my soul as I plunged into the churning water after him.
The river, a monstrous, indifferent beast, buffeted us with its icy grip.
My lungs burned, my limbs felt heavy as lead, but the thought of Jackson, of his promise to protect me, fueled a desperate, primal will to survive.
I fought against the current, against the numbing cold, my eyes scanning the swirling water, searching for any sign of him.
King was ahead, his powerful frame cutting through the turbulent water, his own roars echoing my own terror.
Then I saw him. Floating face down, his body was a dark, limp shape against the churning gray.
A choked sob escaped me as I propelled myself forward, my leaden limbs finding a desperate strength.
King reached him first, his rough hands pulling Jackson towards the shore, his own body a bulwark against the river’s fury.
I scrambled after them, collapsing onto the cold, wet bank, the world a dizzying blur of pain and fear.
Grace sat beside me, her eyes blank, seeing nothing as she rocked herself back and forth.
But Jackson... Jackson was still. Unmoving. My scream, a raw, ragged thing, tore through the air, a testament to a love that had become my sanctuary, my only reason to fight.
“Jackson!” My voice was a broken whisper, swallowed by the relentless roar of the river and the chilling silence of his stillness.
The fight for survival had become a fight for his life, and in that moment, stripped bare of all pretense, all defenses, I knew only one truth: I would not, could not, face this world without him.
He was my anchor, my light, my reason.
And if he was lost to the darkness, then so was I.
“Come on, little brother,” King snarled, pressing hard on Jackson’s chest. “You are not dying before me.”
Time seemed to freeze as I kneeled beside Jackson, my hands trembling as I reached for him.
My world narrowed to the fragile rise and fall of his chest, the uncertain space between hope and despair.
In the chaos, someone shouted for help, but all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart.
I pressed my ear close, desperate for any sign, any breath, any heartbeat that would tether him—and me—to this world.
The river’s chill seeped into my bones, but I refused to let go.
I whispered his name, pleading, bargaining with whatever power might be listening.
In that suspended moment, everything hung in the balance: love, loss, and the fragile promise of tomorrow.
Then I heard King curse as he looked at his bloodied hands. Before I could stop him, he ripped open Jackson’s shirt and shouted, “Fuck!”
He’d been shot.
Quickly placing my hands over his heart, I tried desperately to stem the flow of blood, as King looked around, for what I didn’t know. What I did know was that Jackson was running out of time.
Time he didn’t have.