The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

As the first vestiges of dawn illuminated the horizon, painting the veil of darkness with hues of gold and crimson, Chase, Drew, and a few other unidentifiable individuals returned to the shoreline.

The guys had an arsenal of surfboards and associated equipment, all prepared for an early morning aquatic adventure.

Undressing beside the smouldering embers of the campfire, the men revealed bodies hardened by countless hours in the gym.

Contrary to my expectations, none donned neoprene wetsuits, instead opting for simple, quick-drying board shorts—a choice I reflected, completed by a T-shirt I had borrowed from Royce.

My once-bold declaration that I could conquer the sea's wrath was mercilessly pulverised against the wild waves.

Icy waters, akin to the frozen obstacles of Iceland's glaciers, sent shivers to the very bone, and the appearance of scales spurting from the depths like apparitions shattered the delusion of tranquil waters teeming with graceful tunafish.

The underwater adventure had transformed into a harrowing struggle for survival. I dismounted the waxed surfboard for the umpteenth time since convincing myself this was a good idea, only to be unceremoniously plunged backwards into the ocean's lair when an enormous wave towered above me.

Obliterated by the tireless inundation of swirling water, my body battered and bruised like a lone leaf caught in a cyclone, I clutched at the air with a closed throat.

Royce's words had been clear: When you tumble into the surf, let your breath flow to stave off the panic.

But there I was, defiant of guidance, with every bit of learned advice slipping through my fingers like sand.

Forty-five minutes of lessons dissolved into the salt water. I was nearly my own undoing, a rebel against the very rules meant to save me.

Instead of rising to the surface, I flailed beneath the water like a fish out of its element, my movements desperate and disoriented.

The surfboard, once a beacon of hope, had vanished from my grasp, the loosened ankle strap a cruel reminder of my inexperience.

Disoriented and consumed by hysteria, I struggled to maintain my composure, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I fought against the pull of the ocean's undertow.

Just as the hopelessness threatened to pull me into the abyss, a lifeline emerged. A strong, inked arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me to the surface.

The moment my head broke through the water, I gasped, a deluge of air rushing into my lungs, mingling with the salty tang of the sea.

Trembling from head to toe, I clung to Royce with unwavering gratitude. My heart overflowed with appreciation for his timely intervention.

"You never fucking listen!" Royce's harsh voice cut through my panic-stricken thoughts. His hands, normally rough and calloused, felt surprisingly gentle and pruned against my cold cheeks. "I told you not to panic."

I bet my makeup was a mess, running down my face in streaks of mascara and eyeliner like a smear campaign.

"Panic leads to hyperventilation, making it difficult to breathe." Royce's words, each one a sharp jab at my carelessness, felt like a slap to the face. "It can also cause dizziness and lightheadedness, increasing your risk of injury." His grip on my cheeks tightened slightly, his thumb denting my flesh, a silent reminder of the danger I had put myself in. "And what can hypoxia trigger, Liv?"

Our intertwined bodies bobbed gently in the ocean, the rhythm of the waves lulling me into a false sense of security.

My legs encircled his torso in a gesture that belied the precariousness of our situation. I clasped onto his broad shoulders. "Drowning and marine life encounters."