Chapter Sixteen
I buckle the girls into their car seats and then brush my fingers through their soft hair.
Chloe wiggles a little, her usual restless energy bubbling over, a kinetic force of nature, as she fidgets impatiently with the strap.
Andi, in contrast, sits perfectly still, gazing up at me with wide, innocent eyes, like twin pools of clear water.
I can feel their anticipation of resuming their familiar routines.
I’m anticipating returning to my own routine I’ve set here.
But there’s also the familiar tug at my heart that always accompanies our partings, no matter how often I do it, no matter how much I tell myself I need the solitude to write.
I lean down and kiss them both on the forehead, my lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual, inhaling the sweet, faint scent of sleep and childhood.
“I’ll be home in a week for your birthday,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a cheerfulness I don’t feel, even though the words catch in my throat like a dry and uncomfortable lump.
One week feels like an eternity right now, like I’ll have so many more moments with Saint between now and my trip home for the party next weekend.
And then I’ll come back for another week.
A final week with Saint, with my laptop, with my thoughts.
I really do think I’ll walk away from this cabin for good with an entire book.
Maybe it will have all been worth it.
“How long is a week?” Andi asks, her voice small and curious, a tiny, piping sound, her eyes sparkling with that endless thirst for knowledge, her innate wonder. She’s still trying to grasp the concept of time.
Before I can answer, Chloe jumps in with the unshakable confidence only a five-year-old can possess.
“It’s only thirty days,” she says matter-of-factly, her tone full of certainty, as if she’s the undisputed authority on all things time related.
She crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture of absolute conviction, proud of her declaration, and Andi nods, as if her big sister’s word is absolute law, etched in stone.
I can’t help but smile at Chloe’s firm assertion, even though it’s entirely, hilariously wrong. “A week is only seven days,” I correct gently, knowing this will probably turn into a back-and-forth debate that neither of us will win. I tuck a stray strand of Chloe’s hair behind her ear.
Chloe shakes her head, her brow furrowing in frustration, a determined frown. “No, it’s thirty,” she insists, her voice rising just a little, imbued with a fierce conviction, determined to make her point, to defend her teacher’s wisdom. “Sometimes thirty-one. My teacher said it.”
I suppress a weary laugh, not wanting to start a battle I have no interest in fighting, especially not now.
I know I could patiently explain the difference between days and weeks and months, the nuances of the calendar, but my patience is threadbare.
I just need them to leave, need them to be safely away from here, before Saint pulls another horrifying stunt and shows up while they’re still here.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
“Okay. Thirty days,” I say, capitulating, just wanting the conversation to end, to usher them out. “Love you.” I lean in one last time and press a quick kiss to each cheek.
I close their car door with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the deceptive quiet of the morning air, and I take a deep, shaky breath, knowing that the next week will feel far longer for me than it will for them, an eternity stretching out ahead.
As I step back from the car, Shephard walks toward me, his arms already outstretched for a hug, his face a picture of relief and contentment.
He pulls me into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping me, familiar and solid, and I lean into him for just a moment, trying to let the sheer physicality of his presence ground me, pull me back from the edge.
He kisses my cheek, the gesture tender and reassuring, a practiced kindness, but it does little to soothe the storm swirling inside me, the relentless turmoil.
“I’m glad we came,” he says, his voice soft but filled with an easy affection that, in other circumstances, would be deeply comforting.
To him, this visit was just a nice break, a chance to reconnect as a family, a chance for me to “get back on track,” for him to remind me that I’m not alone out here, struggling in the shadow of my career’s recent decline.
“Maybe last night was the inspiration you needed to finally kick-start things again,” he adds with a smile, his eyes twinkling with a hopeful optimism that feels completely out of place.
He has no idea. He doesn’t know how sickeningly right he is, but for all the wrong reasons.
Last night did bring me inspiration—just not the kind he’s imagining, not the kind that would ever see the light of day in a book for general consumption.
The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt rising in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I swallow it down, forcing it deep inside where it can’t hurt me right now, where it can’t betray me.
“I’m glad you came too.” I force a quick, almost perfunctory peck on his lips, trying to keep the facade in place, to keep the flimsy walls from crumbling down around me.
I step back as he climbs into the car, the girls already waving eagerly from the back seat, their small hands pressed against the glass.
I plaster on a wide, practiced smile and wave back.
I keep waving until the car disappears down the winding gravel driveway, until I can no longer see their small faces pressed against the windows, until the last glint of chrome vanishes beyond the trees.
The moment the car is out of sight, my smile drops, evaporating from my face like smoke. The relief I feel is instant. A sharp, exhilarating rush.
When I’m certain they’re gone and can no longer hear the rumble of the engine, I turn and head back into the house.
I’m moving on autopilot, my steps quick and purposeful, almost frantic, my mind racing with one singular, overwhelming thought: I need to call Saint.
It’s not a question. It’s a primal, desperate need.
He’s all I’ve been able to think about since last night, his audacious presence lingering in my mind like a dark, intoxicating shadow I can’t shake, clinging to my thoughts, weaving through every fleeting moment of false calm.
I need to hear his voice again, to ground myself in whatever this terrifying, exhilarating thing is between us, this dance that feels utterly out of my control.
I don’t get far. The moment I open the door, I’m left frozen in place.
Saint is somehow standing right in front of me, having materialized as if from thin air, his tall, imposing frame blocking my path completely, filling the doorway. His eyes, dark and piercing, are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
A million questions flood my mind all at once, a chaotic, unbidden torrent. How did he get inside? I locked the doors last night, I was so careful! How long has he been here? Has he been watching me? Watching Shephard?
I feel utterly exposed, incredibly vulnerable, like the very walls of my supposedly safe space have been irrevocably breached, and I have absolutely no control over what happens next. The familiar, quiet cabin suddenly feels like a cage.
Saint doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.
His presence speaks volumes as he keeps his gaze on me while he steps aside to allow me to pass.
Without warning or an invite, he follows me inside, then shuts the door with a startling slam.
The sound of the lock echoing in the otherwise silent room seals us in.
His hand moves quickly, with a chilling efficiency, as he continues to the next lock, a sharp twist of the dead bolt, the thud reverberating through me.
Before I can even process what’s happening, he grabs me and pushes me against the door.
The sudden force of his body presses against mine, pinning me to the solid wood, trapping me, and I can feel the radiating heat from his skin, the raw, barely leashed power in his touch, in the taut muscles of his chest against my own.
He grips my jaw with one firm hand, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to make my breath hitch, and then his mouth crashes against mine in a hard, possessive kiss.
There’s no gentleness, no hesitation, no tender exploration.
His kiss is a claim, a brutal, undeniable reminder of the power he holds over me, a force that both terrifies and thrills.
And despite the fear thrumming through my veins, I feel myself melting into it, my body betraying my mind, responding with a desperate hunger of its own.
I don’t know what it is about this twisted game we’re playing that I love so much, this push and pull of control and surrender.
But rather than shove him away, rather than fight him, which is what every shred of my responsible, married self screams I should do, I moan, a low, guttural sound, and pull him closer, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.
I think it’s the reckless, careless danger surrounding Saint’s actions that draws me to him, the thrill of walking so close to the edge.
He takes risks that Shephard never would, not in a million years.
He puts me in uncomfortable, exhilarating situations, pushing my boundaries, shattering my complacency.
And he clearly enjoys every single second of it. His pleasure is almost as intoxicating as his touch.
Saint pulls back, tearing his mouth from mine with a soft, wet sound, and presses his forehead to mine, his eyes still burning into my soul. His breath is warm against my face, a ghost of a whisper. “Get in the shower and wash him off.”
The command, delivered in that low, intimate tone, hits me like a physical blow. It’s so shockingly, surprisingly insulting, so utterly possessive and demeaning, that my immediate response is pure, unfiltered defiance. “Fuck you,” I snap, the words spitting from my lips before I can even think.
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dim light, a predator’s smile.
Without a word, he grabs my wrist, his fingers firm but not bruising, and pulls me with a deliberate, unyielding force in the direction of my bedroom, toward the bathroom.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise. “But not until you wash him off.”
He gets me all the way to the bathroom door, the porcelain gleam of the sink visible, before I try to defend myself, to regain some agency, some shred of dignity.
The rational, self-preserving side of me wants to run from him, to escape this intoxicating vortex he’s created.
But the overwhelming majority of me is consumed by a morbid curiosity, a thrilling anticipation of where this will lead, how far he’s willing to push.
I pull my wrist from his grasp, the gesture more symbolic than effective.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, my voice laced with a genuine awe and terror.
He pulls me into the small bathroom, the space suddenly too confined, too intimate, and then, with a shocking tenderness amid his strength, he grips the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.
“And you fucking love it,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, right before his mouth comes down on mine again, harder this time, more desperate.
And like the whore that I am, I kiss him back with just as much urgency, just as much desperate need, my own body demanding the punishment and the pleasure.
He’s unbuttoning my jeans while he kisses me, his fingers quick and adept, surprisingly gentle, making short work of the button.
When he gets them unzipped with a soft rasp of metal, he tears his mouth from mine, his breath ragged, and kneels in front of me.
His dark eyes burn into mine as he expertly removes my jeans and then my panties, pulling them down my legs, urging me, silently, to step out of them.
My balance is precarious, but I obey, stepping out of the small heap of denim and lace.
Then he’s standing again, pulling my shirt over my head, stripping me bare under his relentless gaze.
He reaches into the shower, turns on the water, and then looks at me, his gaze intense, expectant. “Get in, Petra.” The command is soft, yet absolute.
I love that he doesn’t call me Reya in this moment.
When he says my name, my real name, it makes it seem like he really is jealous, truly possessive.
That raw, masculine jealousy inexplicably emboldens me, fuels a defiant thrill.
I step into the shower, the cool spray hitting my naked skin, just as he starts to remove his own clothes, shedding them with a fluid grace.
I know he locked the front door. I saw him do it.
But Shephard could still come back. What if he forgot something?
What if he realizes I’m not in the living room, that I didn’t grab my laptop?
If he forgot something and came back . .
. The thought flashes through my mind, a fleeting spark of terror, a necessary adrenaline rush.
My thoughts are broken, fragmented, as Saint steps into the shower with me, his warm, naked body pressing against mine in the confined space.
He grabs the showerhead and pulls it off the holder with a soft click.
He places it between my legs, aiming the nozzle, and I gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, because the water is still stunningly cold, a frigid shock against my most sensitive skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice thin, almost a whimper, shocked by the sudden, visceral intensity of it all, the sheer, brazen audacity.
He presses his mouth to my ear, his breath hot against my wet skin, the words a low, guttural growl that vibrates through me. “Washing him off your cunt so I can eat it.”
His words, crude and utterly depraved, make me physically shudder, a deep, involuntary tremor that racks my entire body.
I lean my head against the cold, tiled shower wall, surrendering to the sensation, to his sheer will, and in that moment, in the face of his desire, I forget all about Shephard.
All about my husband, about the lies, about the life I’m betraying.
Right now, it’s just . . . Saint.