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“Good night, Dr. Chastain,” I say brightly. “Thanks again for your advice.”

He nods, stone-faced. “I hope you’ll think about what I said.”

What has he said? Nothing. Everything.

I have no idea what he’s referring to, but I nod back and make my escape. Halfway across the Fish Tank, a thought barrels into me. Leo touching Nora. Making her blush all over, making her cry out his name.

“Mia?” questions Callum.

He and Preston stand on the other side of the Fish Tank. Beyond them, voices and music drift from the party.

“Are you okay?” Preston asks softly.

No.

“I will be,” I say and kick off my shoes. “Come here, Preston.”

He blinks those beautiful green eyes and obeys. Behind him, Callum’s brows arch in surprise.

“What about me?” he asks lightly.

I shrug. “You can come, too.”

When Preston is close enough, I grab his hand and thread our fingers together. His breathing accelerates, coming in nervous pants.

“What are we doing?” he asks. Scared. Excited.

“Whatever I want,” I whisper back. “Ready?”

His throat bobs and he nods. I grin, plant a quick kiss on his smooth cheek, then drag him out the back door of the Fish Tank. By the time the dark waters of the pool loom before us, we’re running.

Preston gurgles in alarm.

I laugh and leap into emptiness, taking him with me.

8

SACRIFICES

DAY 8 - 9

While Preston scrambles to get out of the pool in his heavy clothes, I float in the deep end, arms and legs waving, and gaze at the endless night sky. I imagine the water around me full of stars. I’m high above. Free.

My ears are underwater, but before long, I hear the muted reverberations of my name being called. Urgent voices. Then angry ones. I’m sure they’re arguing about who will dive in to get me.

Then his voice, lower and softer than the rest, but somehow clearer.

“Amelia.”

I blow out three short, forceful breaths, then suck air deep into my lungs. Then I fold my body and sink. Another type of freedom, a watery cocoon. No voices here. I come to rest on the floor of the pool, my legs crossed and my miniskirt around my waist.

Dark. Silent.

My first underwater meditation was at thirteen. It hadn’t ended well, but practice makes perfect. I know my limits. Know how to listen to my heartbeat for signs of distress. When my lungs begin to burn, I release a slow stream of bubbles. Ridding myself of carbon monoxide. Savoring my depleting oxygen. White spots dance in my vision. Tiny stars.

A strong, masculine hand grabs my arm, and I open my eyes.

The disappointment is crushing.