Chapter Seventeen

Cortney screamed as she ran. She was already in the water by the time he created the splash when he landed. He was at least a hundred feet out. The water was deep enough that it would cushion his fall, but even a phoenix had to breathe.

Her lungs burned for air, and her arms ached, but she kept swimming. Flipping Draven onto his back once she reached him, her heart stuttered, and another sob tore out of her. His lips were blue. He wasn’t breathing. She had no way of knowing if his injuries were too severe to heal, but damn it, she could do CPR if she could just get his body onto the shore.

She tried to maneuver herself into position to give him a breath, but she was still too deep. Kicking hard, she dragged him closer and closer. Her arms and legs trembled under the strain. “You can’t do this to me, Draven,” she yelled at him, her throat raw.

A flash of blue overhead was all the warning she got. The next second, Ry had shifted and dropped into the water next to her. The splash he created sent her and Draven underwater. She spluttered as she bobbed back to the surface.

“I’ve got him,” he told her as he took over pulling Draven through the water.

When they reached the shore, she fell to her knees, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “Put him down here,” she ordered between gasps.

“Fuck,” Ry cursed as he did as she asked, before covering the largest wound with his hands applying pressure.

The sand beneath Draven stained red with his blood. He was losing so much.

Trista was there in seconds, starting compressions, while Cortney positioned his head and neck, opening his airway.

“He doesn’t need CPR,” Ry said, his voice hoarse. “We need to slow the bleeding so his phoenix can heal.”

“He does. Unless a phoenix can live with lungs full of water,” Cortney bit out. There were many things she wasn’t sure of, but this, she knew. Her training took effect, steadying her hands, and her mind for the task at hand.

Jasmine dropped to her knees on his other side and pressed on another deep wound.

“One, and two, and three, and four,” Trista counted out loud, not stopping until she reached thirty, pausing just long enough for Cortney to blow two breaths into Draven’s lungs.

Ry’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded.

After the next set of compressions, water bubbled to Draven’s lips. “We have to turn him onto his side to let the water out.” At once, Ry log rolled him, while Cortney steadied Draven’s neck.

Lake water spilled from between his lips, but he didn’t cough. “Turn him back,” Cortney ordered. “Breaths first,” she told Trista. It went against every textbook, and all her training, but she had to try.

She gave him two slow breaths, then sat back on her heels. “No more compressions,” she told Trista, who looked at her like she’d grown a second head and put her hands on his chest again.

Cortney sobbed and shook her head. “No more, stop compressions,” she said, her voice wobbly. More than anything she wanted to see his chest rise and fall, but doing compressions wouldn’t help. The need to keep the heart beating, and the lungs breathing had repeatedly been drilled in her mind during her years at university, and still throughout her nursing career, but that wasn’t what Draven needed. The bleeding had to stop, and the best way to do that was to stop the heart from beating. At the instinctual level, it was so wrong, but she knew she was right. “He’ll bleed out more if we do compressions.”

Trista gasped and immediately stopped.

Ryland loosened his hold on his friend’s wound, and sure enough, the blood leaking from the gashes slowed to a trickle.

“How long before we know,” Cortney asked Ryland past the fist-sized lump in her throat.

Ry wouldn’t meet her gaze. His cheeks turned red, and he sniffled.

“How long, Ryland?”

“He lost a lot of blood,” he choked out.

Cortney shook her head, and a whimper slipped past her lips. “No, he’s not dying for real. He’s a phoenix, damn it. How long until he explodes into a huge fireball and comes back to me?”

When Ry didn’t respond, she squared her shoulders and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

“Cort,” Trista started, her voice thick. “He might not make it back.”

Cortney was vaguely aware of the people surrounding them. Tears streamed down many of their faces, but she stayed where she was with his head on her lap. “He will.” She refused to believe otherwise.

Trista knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around her. Pain tore through her, but she didn’t give in. She wouldn’t.

Jasmine came close, speaking to her, but she didn’t hear a word. A small tremor started deep in the center of her, shaking her to her core. Her eyes blurred with fresh tears, and she brushed them away with jerky movements. Her lungs burned, and her throat ached. She swallowed hard, trying to keep herself together, but one sob broke free, then another.

Her shoulder shook as she bent over him, pressing her wet lips to his. “You have to come back,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek. “Please, for me.”

She pressed her trembling fingers to his cold cheek. “He needs a blanket. He’s so cold,” she said.

Trista nodded. “Someone get him a blanket,” she called out, then tucked it all around him when it was handed to her a short while later.

When one was draped around her shoulders, Cortney burrowed deeper beneath it and eventually lay down next to him. One by one, the people lingering around them mumbled awkward condolences and stepped away.

She watched his chest, hoping—needing—to see it rise and fall, but it didn’t. Damn him.

Trista cleared her throat. “I think we should go in, Cort.”

Cortney shook her head. “I can’t, not yet.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking, “but it’s time to go inside. Ryland will bring him in. They have ceremonies they’d like to perform.”

“I. Said. Not. Yet.” She glared at her friend. “There’s still time. Ryland said it could take hours.”

“It has been hours, hon.” She looked at Trista, then to her surroundings, only then noticing that the sun was setting.

She wanted to tell them all to leave her the fuck alone. She wasn’t ready to give up, but if she said that, they’d just get pushy and try to fix her. But there was nothing to fix. Draven wasn’t fucking dead. “I just need some time alone with him. Please. I’ll come in later, I promise.”

Trista sighed but then nodded before she stood and held her hand out for Ry to take.

“Knock on my door when you’re ready,” he told her before heading off.