Chapter Ten
It’s too bright.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the entire bathroom is suddenly flooded in bright white light.
Rather than calm me, it only makes things worse. The fact that the power is back on—just like that—proves one thing. Saint was the one who turned it off in the first place. He was in control the entire time. He’s the reason I was left in the dark, terrified, alone.
And then I hear it—the soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Petra?” Saint’s voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the gentleness in his tone, the concern. It’s the same voice he’s always used with me, the voice that once made me feel safe. Now, it only makes me feel more trapped.
“Get . . . out,” I manage to choke out between sobs. I try to sound angry, but my voice betrays me. It’s thin and weak, filled with fear instead of fury. I should be angry. I am angry, but right now, all I can feel is scared.
The door creaks open, and I feel my stomach drop. My legs are shaking so hard, I can barely stand. My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it.
“Petra,” he says softly, stepping into the room. His voice is calm, soothing, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside me. “Petra, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought I wanted you to attack me?” I scream, my voice cracking with emotion.
I shove the shower curtain aside, using part of it to hide myself, but I need to look him in the eye.
Tears continue streaming down my face as I glare at him through the haze of water and steam. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping as if my words have physically hurt him. But I don’t care. I don’t care if he’s sorry. I don’t care if he regrets what he did. He crossed a line, a line I never thought he would cross, and there’s no coming back from that.
I yank the shower curtain shut, and then I close my eyes, trying to block out the confusion, the whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Did I think he’d never cross this line?
Or did I ask him to do this?
My thoughts scatter in all directions as I search for some logical explanation, a reason why Saint would take things this far.
I replay every conversation, every look, every word exchanged between us, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find anything that justifies this.
No. I didn’t.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask him to break into my cabin in the middle of the night, to terrify me, to tie me to a chair.
All I did was tell him about the book, share the inner workings of my writing process.
It wasn’t an invitation to scare the living shit out of me.
It wasn’t supposed to be an open door for him to step into my life and confuse me so badly that I thought I was about to fucking die.
But here we are, and I can’t help but wonder . . . Did he assume I wanted this? Did he think I was asking for this? For him to take over my life, my space, my thoughts?
Did I confuse him?
I don’t even know what to think anymore. I’m so wrapped up in the emotions of everything since he walked into my life, in the intensity of what’s been happening, that I don’t trust myself to make sense of any of it.
Do I even have the right to be angry at him for doing this?
The thought stabs at me, sharp and cruel. I hate that I’m questioning myself, hate that I’m doubting my own feelings. But the truth is, I don’t know if I have the right to be angry.
Somewhere deep inside, a small, shameful part of me wonders if this is what I hoped for. If, on some subconscious level, I craved this chaotic dark thrill.
Did I subconsciously want this to happen?
The question burns through me, leaving a trail of guilt and confusion in its wake.
I don’t want to believe that I did. I don’t want to think that I somehow invited this madness into my life.
But the doubt is there, clinging in the corners of my mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I’m responsible for all this.
I lean against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over me, mingling with the tears that won’t stop falling. I feel so small, so lost in this moment, trapped between wanting to lash out and wanting to curl up and disappear.
My sobs are quieter now, more resigned.
Did I even lock the front door last night?
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
No. I didn’t.
I know I didn’t.
After Saint and I parted ways, I was so consumed by the rush of inspiration, so eager to get everything out of my head and onto the page, that I took my laptop to the bedroom as soon as I got home and I wrote until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
I’ve been going on writing retreats for years, and in all those nights, I’ve never forgotten to lock my doors. But last night . . . last night, I did. I left myself exposed, vulnerable. And now, standing in this shower, I’m paying the price for that mistake.
My hands are covering my face, my fingers trembling as I try to pull myself together.
But then I hear it—the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I freeze, too terrified to even look.
I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to face him, not like this. But I can feel him standing here.
I’m angry. God, I’m so angry.
I’m embarrassed, humiliated by the way things have spiraled out of control. But beneath it all, I’m still scared—terrified, even. I feel so powerless, and the last thing I want is to confront the man responsible for all this.
“God, Petra.” Saint’s voice breaks through the sound of the water, soft and full of remorse. “I am so sorry.”
His words hang in the air, but they don’t offer the comfort I need. He doesn’t get to apologize. Not after what he’s done. Not after the way he’s crossed every line. But even as my mind screams at him, as I tell myself that I should hate him for this, my body betrays me.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking.
I keep my hands over my face, not wanting him to see me like this, but I can feel his presence getting closer.
I’m shocked when I feel the water shift, and then his arms wrap around me, gently pulling me against him.
I can feel the wet fabric of his clothes pressing against my bare skin, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to react.
He’s stepped into the shower with me, fully dressed, his clothes now soaking wet, but his arms are holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid to let go.
I don’t understand why I’m allowing him to do this. I don’t understand anything anymore.
I should push him away. I should scream at him, yell, do something to make him understand how wrong this all is.
But instead, I stand here, leaning against his chest, my body trembling, my sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt.
As much as I hate myself for it, as much as I want to punch him, to make him feel even a fraction of the fear and confusion I’ve felt, I can’t deny that in this moment . . . I need him.
I need him to hold me. I need to feel like someone is here, like someone cares.
I think this might have been a terrible miscommunication.
The thought offers a small sense of solace, something to hold on to in the midst of this emotional storm.
“When you told me about your book,” Saint begins, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “I thought you were asking me to—”
I shake my head quickly, interrupting him before he can finish.
“I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from crying.
I’m too exhausted, too emotionally drained to rehash every detail of what happened.
“I know,” I say again, because in a way, I do know.
I did ask for something—I just didn’t know it would unfold like this.
I lower my hands from my face, letting them fall naturally around him.
My arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I press my cheek against the wet fabric of his shirt.
The heat from his body seeps into mine, and for a moment, I let myself feel comforted by his presence.
I can’t tell if that makes me weak or if it’s just what I need right now, but I don’t let go. I hold on tighter.
“I don’t know if that’s what I was asking you,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“What we’ve been doing . . . it’s confusing.
I barely know you, and then this . . .” My words trail off as the load of everything settles on my shoulders.
The whirlwind of emotions, the passion, the fear—it’s all too much.
I barely recognize my own feelings anymore, let alone understand what I’ve been asking of him.
Saint presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and then he just holds me. Quietly. Steadily. No words. Just the warmth of his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair, the feeling of being anchored after having been adrift for too long.
We stay like this for several minutes, the sound of the shower cascading around us, washing away the tension in small, soothing waves.
My tears finally begin to subside, and I take a deep breath, pulling away slightly to look up at him.
His eyes are filled with remorse, and I can see how much he regrets what happened, how much he wishes he could take it back.
There’s a tenderness there that tugs at something deep inside me.
He lifts a hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb under my eye, wiping away the smudges of mascara that have streaked down my cheeks from all the crying.
His touch is so soft, so careful, and it’s in this moment that I realize he wasn’t trying to hurt me.
He never wanted to scare me. He just . . . misunderstood. Like I did.
He was just trying to help me. To push me into a feeling I’ve never experienced before.