Page 73 of Ravage

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 hopeand 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.