Chapter 8 Kristen
The water closed over my head before I could scream. Cold hit me like a wall, like being punched in the ribs from every direction at once. My breath locked in my throat. Then it escaped—bubbles and nothing. My legs kicked but I didn’t know where the bottom was. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel anything except the shock slicing up my spine. My mouth opened. Water rushed in.
Everything went black.
Something slammed into my shoulder. Then again. Hands. Rough hands. My body jerked and turned. I couldn’t tell which way was up. I twisted in the water, blind, breathless, until my back hit something solid. Arms wrapped around me. I felt them—thick, warm, tight around my ribs. My cheek pressed to skin. A heartbeat. Hard and fast. I heard my name through the surface, distorted and low.
Then we broke through.
Air hit my face. I gasped, but it wasn’t air that filled my lungs. I choked, coughed, water pouring out as he dragged me toward the shore. Mud scraped my calves as I was pulled halfway onto the bank, the rest of me too heavy to move. I couldn’t speak. My arms wouldn’t work. I felt myself flipped roughly onto my side, then hands on my back, steady pressure. More water. More coughing. My throat burned. My eyes blurred.
Someone said my name again. Closer now. Steady.
“Kristen.”
The voice was familiar and not. It didn’t sound calm anymore.
I opened my eyes and saw him.
He was over me. His knees in the mud, one arm braced beside my head, the other cupping the side of my face. His skin was wet. Steam rose faintly from his chest in the cool air. He was shirtless. No, more than that—he wasn’t in anything except briefs. Dark. Clinging. Soaked completely through. His thighs were covered in dirt and water, lean and muscular, and they framed my hips as he hovered above me. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven bursts. His jaw was clenched tight. Water dripped from his hair, slid down his throat.
And he was beautiful.
Not the kind you admire from a distance. The kind you felt like you weren’t supposed to be seeing. Cut from angles and power. Shoulders wide enough to carry weight. Torso sculpted like something carved instead of grown. Veins trailed down his arms. There were faded scars on his ribs, marks that weren’t accidental. A line ran from his hip down below the waistband. I couldn’t look away from the place where the briefs clung tight. The shape of him under the fabric was obvious. Impossibly snug and thick, hugging every line. Like his body wasn’t designed to be covered at all.
My breath came shallow, but not from drowning. My eyes tracked upward again, until they landed on the ink across his chest.
At first I thought it was just another tattoo—dark black, sharp-edged, unreadable at a glance. But then something shifted in the way he leaned forward. The symbol moved. Not like muscle flexing underneath. Like the ink itself had caught the light in a way that light shouldn’t move.
I blinked. It shimmered. Just for a second. A dull, metallic glint, like silver dragged through oil. It faded instantly, back to flat black, and I would’ve thought I imagined it, but something in his face told me I hadn’t.
He saw me staring.
But he didn’t explain.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
“I am,” I whispered.
He stayed above me for a second longer. I thought he might move, might shift his weight or look away, but he didn’t. He studied my face like I was more puzzle than person, and when his eyes dropped to my mouth, I felt the heat everywhere. It crept up my thighs, settled low in my belly, bloomed between my legs with a kind of weight I didn’t want to name.
Then he moved. He stood and turned slightly, his back to me.
I watched him dress.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble or cover himself. He moved with the same deliberate control I’d seen on the bike. His pants were slung low, wet denim clinging to his thighs as he shoved one leg in, then the other. When he pulled them up, I watched the way his stomach flexed, watched the muscles stretch and tighten. He didn’t even hesitate before reaching down and adjusting himself inside the fabric with one hand, like it was nothing, like I wasn’t watching and my whole body wasn’t still buzzing from the sight of him.
I rolled onto my side, hand pressed to the ground, trying to push myself upright. My limbs felt weak. My skin was cold, wet, and prickling with sensation.
“You need to stand,” he said. “We can’t stay here.”
I didn’t respond.
He turned, already buckling his belt. His chest was still bare, water still dripping down his sternum.
“I’ll explain everything,” he added, softer now. “But not here. You’re not safe.”
“No one’s here.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re alone.”
He knelt and reached for me. I didn’t resist. His arm slipped around my waist, firm and steady, and I let my weight rest against him as he lifted me to my feet. My knees nearly buckled again. His other arm curled behind my legs for a moment before setting me back upright. He smelled like earth and water and something hotter underneath it all. Not sweat. Something like heat made flesh.
“I can walk,” I muttered.
He let me go, but stayed close.
We made it back through the trees together. I leaned on him more than I meant to. My hand stayed tight against his shoulder, and when I shifted, he didn’t flinch or pull away. He just moved with me, silently, his pace never too fast, never impatient. I noticed things I hadn’t before. The way he watched the trees. The way his eyes flicked toward every sound. Like he wasn’t just walking through the woods. Like he was tracking something that hadn’t shown itself yet.
When we reached the edge of the road, I heard it. A sharp, high screech. Not human. Not animal. Something else.
I froze.
He didn’t.
He placed one hand at the small of my back and guided me forward like he hadn’t heard a thing. His face didn’t change. I couldn’t tell if he was ignoring it or expecting it.
The bike was still waiting, parked sideways in the gravel like it had been dropped from the sky.
He mounted first, straddling the seat, hands already on the grips. I moved to follow, slow, still damp, still shaking. He held out a hand without looking, and I took it. My legs swung over, and I settled behind him again.
This time, I didn’t hesitate when I wrapped my arms around his waist.
He reached back and adjusted my hands, lower. I didn’t know why at first—until my fingers brushed the front of his belt. The buckle was warm. My hand froze. I felt the shape of him underneath again, through thick denim this time, but still obvious. Still hard to ignore.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched.
Then the engine roared under us.
I didn’t look back.