Chapter Nine
“‘The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still’?” Nora practically yells the line back at me. “Petra, this is so good! I am so invested in this story, and you sent me one chapter! When will you have more?”
“I have over ten chapters,” I say. “Forty-six thousand words.”
“Are you serious? You’ve written forty-six thousand words?”
“Yep.”
“That’s like half a book!”
“I know. I’m so relieved, but I’m scared to get too cocky. I might jinx it.”
“Are you happy with what you’ve written so far?” she asks. “You’re not going to toss it and start over and confuse me by changing the entire plotline?”
She knows me so well. “So far it’s a keeper,” I say. “I’ll send the rest to you if you want to read more of what I have.”
I’m curious what she’ll say if she can find the time to read it.
I don’t know if the reason I like what I’ve written so far is because of the whole muse aspect I’ve still kept hidden from Nora, or if I just like Saint so much that I’m confusing my trash writing with my exhilarating feelings for him.
It would be good to have an outsider’s opinion.
“Absolutely you better send it, right now, while I’m on the phone.”
God, I love her. I don’t know if she’s actually excited to read this, but she knows how much confidence her excitement lends. I open the file and attach it to an email while she waits, and then I hit send.
“It’s rough,” I say.
“I know, I know, it sucks, it’s trash, you have to flesh it out more,” she says. “I do this for a living, too, you know.” I hear her download the file after it comes through. “Still untitled?” she asks, looking at the first page.
I’m still not sure what the book will be called, so right now I just have the literal word Untitled as the working title. “Not yet. I have a list of contenders, though.”
“Okay, starting it now. Love you, bye.” Nora ends the call, but her rush to start reading everything I’ve written so far perks me up. I was about to crawl into bed when she called, but now I feel like crawling into bed with my laptop.
I don’t know why, but whenever I know someone is reading one of my works in progress, I feel like I have to start from the beginning and read it like I’m them, not knowing where the book is heading, looking at it with a fresh pair of eyes.
I especially love doing this when I know Nora is reading, because she sends me live updates over text as she reads.
This is probably my favorite part of writing. The peer support.
My least favorite part is the dread I feel knowing she may very well come back and tell me the manuscript isn’t working. That I still don’t know how to write a love triangle, even though I’m risking so much by playing a part in one.
I plop down onto my bed with my laptop and open it as I adjust the pillows. I’ve had my phone on Do Not Disturb since being on my date earlier, so I’m surprised at the number of messages that begin popping up on my laptop as soon as it wakes.
It’s Mari. U didn’t text by 11.
Petra, it’s 11:03.
It’s 11:06 are u dead?
11:09 now I’m getting worried
Ok I’m coming to u
Nvmd. Just saw you drive by. Guess ur alive.
Unless he’s wearing your skin and driving your car
I can’t believe I forgot to message her.
I called Nora as soon as I walked in the door and forgot all about Mari.
I immediately respond and let her know I’m safe in bed, and then I put my computer on Do Not Disturb so I can hopefully get some work done while still running off the creative fumes of my conversation with Nora.
I fell asleep in bed with my laptop open. It happens a lot. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with the familiar weight on my chest, satisfied to know that I worked until I couldn’t write another word.
I can feel its cold edge pressing into my ribs when I attempt to roll over, so I push it away, hearing it slide across the blanket to the other side of the bed. The screen light flickers for a second before I reach over and close it, and then the room goes dark.
Too dark.
I open my eyes wider, suddenly nervous to move. I don’t know why. I don’t think anything woke me, and I don’t hear any unfamiliar noises.
That’s the problem, though. It almost feels more than quiet—it feels like there’s a huge absence of noise. I don’t hear the ceiling fan. I don’t feel the air circulating. I don’t hear the hum of the air conditioner.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to convince myself to fall back asleep. Just go back to sleep.
But something is off. I can’t place it at first, but there’s an eerie stillness in the air.
The house is so quiet, like the world outside has gone mute.
Too dark. My heart begins to race. Too silent.
An instinctual alarm is going off in my chest. Too alone.
I blink a few times, trying to shake off the drowsiness, but the unease only intensifies.
I open my eyes fully, and my gaze is immediately drawn to the bedroom door. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the feeling that I’m not alone, that something is waiting.
And then I see it.
A shadow.
It’s filling the doorway—dark and unmoving, blending into the blackness of the room but still distinguishable in its shape.
The silhouette of a person. I can’t make out any details, but it’s there, and it’s watching me.
A cold wave of terror crashes over me, weighing down on my chest like a vise grip.
This can’t be real.
For a moment, I’m paralyzed, unable to move, barely able to breathe. My body freezes in fear, my muscles locked tight as I stare at the figure in the doorway. I want to scream, but it’s like one of those nightmares where you try to call for help, but no sound comes out.
My throat feels tight, my voice trapped somewhere deep inside me.
I reach for my phone instinctively, my fingers fumbling on the bedspread, desperate to find it in the darkness. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I can’t think. I can’t focus on anything except the shadow, which is now moving.
The figure lunges forward, and in that split second, my body finally reacts. A jagged scream rips from my throat as I scramble to the other side of the bed. My legs tangle in the sheets as I try to pull away, to escape.
But I’m not quick enough.
A hand—large, strong—wraps around my ankle with a brutal grip, yanking me backward with such force that I lose all sense of balance.
My hands claw at the blankets, trying to find something to hold on to, but it’s useless.
I slide across the bed, my body dragged toward the figure.
My phone slips from my fingers, tumbling off the mattress with a dull thud as it hits the floor.
I’m crying now as my chest heaves with panic. The hand around my ankle tightens, cold and unrelenting, pulling me closer to the edge of the bed. I kick out with my other leg, desperate to break free, but it’s no use. I’m trapped, helpless.
In the back of my mind, a thought flashes: Is this Saint?
But no—this feels worse. This feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
My body is racked with adrenaline like I’ve never felt before. “Stop!” I scream. I plead with whoever this is.
Could it be the owner of the cabin?
No. Louie wouldn’t be this strong. It can’t be him.
Terror surges through me, sharp and electric, every nerve on high alert. My heart pounds so violently in my chest, I’m sure it’s about to burst. My breaths are coming out in quick, ragged gasps, each one more desperate than the last.
“Saint, if this is you, please stop. Please.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. I try to recall everything I learned in self-defense class—the techniques, the moves, the strategies to fight back—but there’s no time to think. No time to react. Everything I learned feels distant, like a memory I can’t fully access.
Move, Petra. Do something!
Before I can even try, I’m being yanked off the bed with such force that I can barely process what’s happening.
My feet flail wildly, searching for something—anything—to anchor myself to, but there’s nothing.
The ground seems to slip out from under me as I’m dragged across the floor, the rough fabric of the carpet burning against my skin.
I let out a scream full of terror, but it’s cut short as a hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me in an instant.
Please be Saint. Please be Saint.
The thought shoots through my mind like a lightning bolt, and I hate myself for it. Why am I hoping it’s Saint? Why? Even if he’s taken our little game too far and he’s here, breaking into my house in the dead of night just to scare me, his actions are still horrifying. They’re still inexcusable.
But deep down, I know why I’m hoping it’s him. Because if it’s Saint, then at least I know who it is. I know what this is about. I can reason with him, maybe. I can remind him of the boundaries, the unspoken rules we’ve created in this twisted thing between us.
But if it’s not him . . . the alternative is much, much worse.
I kick my feet against the floor, struggling to get any kind of leverage.
My body twists, fighting to find an escape, but he’s moving too fast. Too strong.
Every time I think I’m gaining some ground, his grip tightens, and I’m dragged farther, helpless against the force pulling me across the room.
My fingers claw at the carpet, searching for anything to grab onto, but it’s useless. I can’t stop him.
“Please,” I cry, my words useless. Saint wouldn’t be this rough with me. Even if he were here playing out a Cam-and-Reya scene, he’d be mindful of my fear. Mindful of his grip.
Whoever this is isn’t thinking about me and my comfort at all.