Dominic nodded sharply, and then they both duck-dived.
I didn’t believe in God or anything like that. I didn’t believe in any higher being that was right now listening as every cell in my body screamed that I wanted to live. But I believed that Dominic was never going to give up on saving me, and I believed in Nipper Will and his “Not in a million fucking years.”
I drew a breath and gritted my teeth.
Rock scraped against skin and bone, and pain as white as lightning flashed in front of my eyes. But behind it, there was something else—a change in the dull, throbbing pressure, a tickle of cold water as a fraction of space opened up. I wiggled my foot, and felt something shift. A strong hand—I don’t know whose—gripped my ankle and wrenched.
It hurt like fuck, and I tumbled backwards into the water, but my foot was free. I knocked my head against the wall, and I barely noticed it, because the next wave that pushed in the cave lifted me and held me aloft.
“You good?” Nipper Will yelled at me.
“Yeah!” I swam towards the path that climbed upwards to the high up chamber, with Nipper Will and Dominic following. I dragged myself out of the water and tried to stand.
My ankle gave out, and I stumbled to my knees.
“Take the torch,” Dominic said, and shoved it at Nipper Will. He helped me to my feet. “Come on, Natty.”
Nipper Will led the way up the path. Dominic helped me limp after him.
“I’m alive,” I said, shivering. I turned around to look into the black water. “Holy shit.”
He pulled me into a hug and pressed a kiss to my temple. I leaned into him and closed my eyes. I never wanted to move again.
“Hurry up!” Nipper Will called back.
So much for that.
It was slow going up the path. Everything hurt. Not just my ankle, though it hurt the most, but the rest of my body too, just from holding myself in the same position for the last few hours, fighting the push and pull of the waves so that I didn’t fall over. But I was alive, and I didn’t give a shit about anything else.
Except—
“What the fuck is all this?” Nipper Will asked when we reached the chamber, the beam of the torch bouncing off the black plastic-wrapped packages stacked neatly on the sandy floor. He spun around and levelled the torch at me. The light hit my eyes like one of those old spy movies where some guy was about to be interrogated for the nuclear codes. Or maybe a cop movie.
I looked at Dominic.
His face was a mask as he helped me sit down.
“Natty,” Nipper Will said. “What the hell have you been up to?”
I shook my head. What was the point of saying anything? All that euphoric relief I’d felt at being alive drained away.
Dominic pulled his multitool out and knelt down on the floor. He grabbed the first package and neatly sliced the plastic open. His stony expression transformed into one of confusion when he revealed the packaging below.
“What the hell?” he asked, turning the carton over in his hand. “Is this—are these bloody cigarettes, Natty?”
I nodded, my stomach twisting.
Dominic sat back on his arse heavily. He inspected one of the cartons with the French writing on it—the yachties picked them in New Caledonia for Young Harry Barnes—and then he laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. It was verging on a crazy laugh.
“Dominic?” I asked, shuffling close enough to reach out and touch his knee.
He looked at me, wide eyed. “Did you almost die for cigarettes? Not heroin, or cocaine, or meth, but cigarettes?”
“It’s illegal,” I whispered.
“It’s a tax law,” Dominic said. “A federal tax law. Jesus Christ. I don’t give a fuck about tax laws, Natty!” He tossed the carton of cigarettes across the floor of the chamber. “Just... don’t do it again, alright? Because it will be really awkward if I ever end up on an episode of Border Force explaining how I didn’t notice my boyfriend was smuggling cigarettes into the country.”
I blinked. “You’re not going to arrest me?”
