Ashton had never sprinted that fast in his life.
Still, by the time he dragged Mirabelle out of the water, her lips were blue, her body limp in his arms.
He had been too f*****g slow.
He knew it the moment her head lolled back and she didn't open her eyes.
He laid her down on the poolside tiles, soaking wet and ice-cold.
He tilted her head, checked her airway, locked his hands over her sternum, and began to pump.
Fast. Hard.
A sick, ugly rhythm that scared the hell out of him.
Then mouth-to-mouth—his breath into hers, again and again, his heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.
Come on, Mirabelle.
Finally, she jerked.
Coughed.
Water poured from her mouth, splattering against his chest.
Her eyes stayed shut, but her breathing started.
