Page 113 of Satan's Spawn
My mouth falls open, slightly shocked but also amused that something inconvenient has finally happened to the asshole.
And that I’m here to witness it.
My delight takes a slow turn when I realize Crayton still hasn’t come up from under the water.
Confusion sets in when I notice he isn’t moving at the bottom of the pool.
Is this a fucking game?
What are they trying to pull?
“Saint! What the hell?” I call out for him, but get no response. “This shit isn’t funny. Stop fooling around!”
Still nothing but the echoes of my concern.
My head swivels back to Crayton, noticing he still hasn’t moved a muscle, and his body has turned face down.
Oh my God, did he hit his head or something?
Thinking this may be a prank gone south, I waste no more time and jump to my feet, diving into the water.
I hate the jerk, yeah, but not enough to want him dead.
Wonder if I can say the same for him?
It doesn’t take me long to reach Crayton, who’s around a foot from the floor of the deepest end.
I grab his face first to check if he’s fucking around, but true fear grips me when I find him unresponsive to my touch.
Holy shit.
I snatch one of his arms and wrap it around my shoulders, the weight of his frame making it that much harder to maneuver him in my hold, but I manage. His head dangles as I kick off the floor, needing a stronger boost to get us both to the surface, but at this point my adrenaline has completely taken the wheel.
That is, until I’m jerked back and startled, which forces my mouth open and oxygen to escape in tiny bubbles. I quickly close my lips as my head shoots to the side, finding Crayton’s eyelids springing open, his eyes stone cold and unbothered by the fact he’s on the brink of drowning.
He’s gorgeous like this, jaw tense and lips pressed together, his black shirt rising enough for me to catch more tattoos painting the skin of his torso.
Crayton Shaw is pure artistry. Dark and mysterious with so many wicked stories untold. Ones I’ll never learn about if we both die in this basement.
I push him off, wriggling out of his embrace when he snags my wrist and pulls me closer to his chest. He studies my face like I’m the one who’s the unsolvable puzzle.
I give him a look that asks “what in the actual fuck are you doing” but Crayton has no response other than to gaze at my hair.
Not this again.
I attempt to kick him and free myself, but don’t get far before he’s level with me, doing that staring thing again.
But this time his expression has a dare wrinkling the corner of his eyes.
He wants to see if I’ll be the first to surrender.
To what? Lack of oxygen? The will to live?
I shake my head desperately, letting him know he’s crazy, and Crayton shrugs, releasing me and staying right where he is—feet kicking slowly like mine to stop himself from floating to the surface.
I have no reason to stay down here with him, but then I remember the games this boy plays feels a lot more like falling under a spell.
I look around the entire pool, then up at the bright ceiling lights dancing through the water, knowing safety is just a few strokes away. But, instead of accepting the invisible outstretched hand, I turn back to my tormenter with determination in my eyes.
