He forced back the twinge of panic much the same way he forced back the pain, shoving it aside with annoyance. Like the pain, it was both unnecessary and unproductive. He’d seen Olivia hit the water, and she’d hit it well, her body limp from the lack of consciousness. She would bob to the surface, and with her blond hair and light skin, he’d spot her easily.

He didn’t wait for that. He knew where she’d gone under, and he could see which direction the water was flowing, and he had only to swim that way and, when she bobbed up, he’d see her, and if by some chance she did not, he’d still find her, under the water, because it was not that deep nor that murky and he’d see her hair. He would.

Except he didn’t. He performed all the logical steps. He headed in the correct direction, and he kept his gaze fixed on it, and he dove under every five feet, looking for her, and as he swam, he calculated trajectory and rate of flow and assessed the variables, and he did everything right. Goddamn it, he did everything right, and yet she did not bob to the surface and he did not catch a flash of her blond hair, and that was not possible. Not possible.

You’ve lost her. Again. You’ll never save her. You can’t.

Gabriel growled and swallowed water, his head barely above the surface. He did not need that now. It was unproductive. None of it was productive except searching for—

You won’t find her. This is your fault. Your selfishness. You led her onto a bridge, where you knew there were men who’d harm her if they could. And why did you do it? Because you were enjoying yourself. She was wounded and in danger, and all that mattered was that she was with you and she was happy and you were off on some grand adventure together.

Gabriel threw off Gwynn’s voice. Except it wasn’t Gwynn’s. It was his own, because he was to blame for this. He had indeed been thinking only of himself, that as long as Olivia was happy then he’d seize the moment and to hell with the consequences.

He remembered her being pushed from the bridge. Falling. Hitting that girder. Crumpling. Now he looked out at the dark and empty water.

These are the consequences.

Not productive, goddamn it, not productive at all.

He thought fast. She should have bobbed up. He should have seen her if she did. Why wouldn’t she—

If she couldn’t. If she went under and got caught on something.

Gabriel dove. He swam underwater the way he’d come, working harder now against the current. Just swim. Damn it, swim. If she’s caught, she’s been under water.

How long has she been under? Five minutes? Ten? At ten minutes without oxygen, the human brain begins to suffer irreversible brain damage. At fifteen minutes: death.

And that is absolutely goddamn fucking not productive. No facts and figures and calculations. Just find her.

As he swam down, though, he kept glancing upward, feeling the urge to surface.

She isn’t down here.

He didn’t know that.

Yes, you do. She’s not down here, Gabriel.

How would he know that? Had he seen an omen? That wasn’t his power. Exactly what powers did he have? He could lie and cheat and deceive and manipulate.

Which is how you got into this mess, isn’t it? You manipulated her up onto that bridge.

He knew she wasn’t down here, just as he knew she’d been in trouble when he called. Accept that. Get his ass back to the surface and find her.

As soon as his head broke through, his gaze swung left, as if by instinct, and he saw something pale bob up from the water, heading toward a storm drain.

He swam as fast as he could, even if he knew it wasn’t necessary. She’d catch on the drain grate and he could get her there. He still put everything he had into those strokes, drawing ever closer to the drain, only to see …

There was no grate.

No, that wasn’t possible. A storm drain by its very nature ought to be covered.

Not productive. Move your ass, because you have no fucking idea what’s in that drain.

A minute later, he was in that drain, and moving fast, the current so strong he had to fight to keep his head above water.

Olivia, where is—?

He saw her, caught on something, her body battering against it. He made his way there and found her jacket had snagged on metal rebar jutting from a concrete slab. He had no idea what purpose the wide concrete slab might serve, only that it formed a perfect platform.

He hauled himself onto it. There wasn’t more than a few feet between the platform and the curving tunnel roof. He had to lie on his stomach, free Olivia’s jacket, and then pull her up beside him. That’s when he discovered she wasn’t breathing.

When Olivia began seeing visions and losing consciousness, he’d kept thinking, What if she stops breathing? The thought had become near obsessive, and the only way to deal with it had been to research the matter. His brain spat back the instructions for CPR now. He laid her flat on her back, knelt beside her, and began with chest compressions. That went well. The mouth-to-mouth did not, and it had nothing to do with the act of putting his lips to Olivia’s, because no matter how many times he might have imagined that—unwittingly, of course—in this reality, Olivia was not breathing and that was all that mattered. The problem came when his lips touched hers and hers were ice-cold, and it was as if every fear he’d kept so carefully contained until then escaped, like bats from a cave, overwhelming him.

She’s cold. Goddamn it, she’s cold.

Of course she was. She’d been in the river. In October.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused, the worries shooed, annoying but not incapacitating. He performed the rescue breathing and then the chest compressions and then the breathing and—