Page 121 of Sweet Redemption

Sweat drips into his eyes as his arms shake. “Breathe, baby. Breathe for me.”

I lean in and check for a pulse I don’t find, and my heart breaks for my friend.

He loves her. He can’t lose her.

I grab his shoulder, getting his attention. “Let me help. You breathe. I’ll do compressions.”

Ryker nods, removing his hands. He breathes into her mouth, and I do compressions, trading off again and again with no change.

Tears mix with black soot as they stream down his face, his hands shaking with each breath.

“Please, baby. Breathe,” he begs again and pushes two more breaths into her lungs as we both watch to see if her chest rises on its own.

It never moves.

I turn away as he drops his lips to her face, wanting to give him privacy, but he yanks my hands back to her chest and starts again.

My wrists scream, and her ribs crack while Ryker demands she live.

“Breathe for me. Take my air. Take my breath. Take it all. It’s yours. I’ll give it all to you if you just breathe.” He presses his head to hers, and something inside me snaps when it looks like he’s ready to accept that she’s gone. “Don’t do this, Lane. Don’t fucking leave me.”

“Keep fucking going,” I demand between compressions. What kind of fucked up world do we live in that he got to have this for two fucking months before it was ripped away? “Don’t you give up on her.”

He waits for me to finish my count and pause compressions before he breathes two more times. And we do it again. And again.

We do it until Ryker freezes and gently touches his fingers to her throat, scared to hope.

Son of a bitch, she’s got a pulse.

It’s faint, but it’s there.

He did it.

He saved her.

Sirens grow louder as firetrucks and an ambulance pull into the lot.

EMTs rush over to our sides.

“No,” Ryker argues when they try to get him to back away. “I’m her husband.”

“Ryker, let them help,” I sign, trying to get through to him. Not sure I can. “Help.”

But after a minute, he agrees and climbs into the ambulance with Delaney, and I drop to my ass, the world fucking spinning.

“Mr. Sinclair.” One of the other EMTs moves in front of me. “We’d like to check you over as well.”

“I need to get my son. He’s with my mom in the dance studio,” I argue, suddenly fucking exhausted. Physically and emotionally. “I need to get him.”

“You need to sit here and let us look you over,” the EMT in front of me says as Max Kingston appears to my right.

What the fuck?

“Did I hit my head?”

“Did he hit his head?” Max asks, and I stare at him, trying to decide if I’m seeing things.

“We don’t know. He was busy saving someone’s life when we pulled up, but he seems to be disoriented, Mr. Kingston.”