Chapter Twenty-Two #4
“So. Did. You,” he counters, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. There’s no apology in his tone, no recognition of the madness of what he’s done. He looks at me as though we’re equal, as if my desire for authenticity in my writing somehow justifies his actions.
“Stop saying I asked you to do this,” I say, my voice breaking under the strain. My hands shake as I grip the bed tighter, trying to ground myself, trying to stay calm, but I can feel myself unraveling. “What we agreed to do together is different from what you chose to do on your own.”
“Is it?” His voice is like ice, unflinching, and he takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing in challenge.
“I never lied to you, Saint!” I yell, my words desperate, grasping for some shred of control in this spiraling situation. “You knew who I was before you showed up here!” My voice cracks again, but I don’t care. I need him to understand that this isn’t the same—that he crossed a line.
He grips the back of his neck, his frustration mounting, his face twisted with anger.
“You didn’t lie? Petra, you’re fucking married!
” he roars, his voice filled with accusation as he closes the distance between us in three long strides.
I instinctively scoot to the other side of the bed, trying to keep space between us, my pulse pounding in my throat.
“You’re a wife and a mother,” he spits, the words sharp as a blade, “and none of your readers know that. I didn’t know that.
You pretend to be someone you’re not every day of your life!
” His words cut deep, striking at the soul of the part of myself I keep private, the people I’ve carefully kept separate from my public persona.
I feel the sting of his words, but I refuse to let him twist this around.
I won’t let him make me feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with what he’s done.
“That’s not the same,” I whisper, my voice trembling, my eyes wide with fear and anger.
But even as I say it, I feel the weight of his accusation bearing down on me, forcing me to question myself, if only for a fraction of a second.
He stands at the edge of the bed now, towering over me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I’m trapped, and we both know it.
I slide off the bed cautiously, my feet hitting the cold floor as I try to create some distance between us.
We’re on opposite sides of the bed now, a temporary barrier between us, but it offers no real protection.
My heart races, my mind grasping for a way out, but every path leads back to the same conclusion. I can’t outrun him.
“Can you blame me for trying to keep my life private?” My voice wavers as I speak, but there’s a desperation in it. “Look what happened with the little information I did put out there.”
My words hang in the air, but they don’t seem to faze him. He starts to move, slowly, deliberately, walking around the bed like a predator closing in on its prey. My pulse quickens as I realize the bed is no longer a safe barrier—it’s just a flimsy, meaningless divide between us.
My back presses against the wall, the cool surface grounding me in this terrifying reality. There’s nowhere to go. And now he’s right in front of me, looming over me with that same unnerving calm.
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow, my palms damp with sweat.
I feel like a cornered animal, powerless, helpless.
I know I’m no match for him physically—he already proved that when he grabbed me so easily.
I force myself to keep my gaze on him, even though every fiber of my being wants to look away, to shrink into nothingness.
“We’re no different, Petra,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing, as if he’s trying to make me believe it.
His height makes me feel even smaller, even more vulnerable.
His voice lowers further, like a whisper of temptation.
“You needed inspiration. I gave that to you in more ways than you could have possibly contrived inside that head of yours.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel my skin crawl at the proximity.
“And you loved it,” he breathes into my ear, the words dripping with satisfaction. “You’re welcome.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls shrinking as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of his presence so close to me.
But there’s no escaping it. I can still feel him there, his breath brushing against my cheek, his body so close it’s suffocating.
A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I bite my cheek to keep from sobbing.
I feel the slow, deliberate path the tear takes as it travels down my face and reaches my jawline.
I flinch when I feel his finger brush the tear away, the touch intimate and invasive.
It sends a fresh wave of revulsion through me.
He hasn’t stepped back, hasn’t given me even a sliver of space to breathe.
I’m shaking now, but I force myself to stay still, to show as little of my fear as possible.
I’m not convinced I’m safe. I don’t feel safe.
But I’m also not convinced he has any immediate plans to hurt me physically.
There’s a terrifying ambiguity in the way he’s behaving, like he’s playing a game with rules only he knows.
But knowing now that he’s not actually married—that he’s been lying about every part of himself—puts everything in a different light.
It changes the stakes. He has nothing to lose if this affair comes to light. Nothing.
But me? I have everything to lose.
The realization falls hard around me. My marriage, my family, my life—everything could crumble because of this.
I thought I was in a bad place before showing up here, but after the awful decisions I’ve made these last few weeks, I have sunk to a new low.
I haven’t just reached rock bottom—I’ve burrowed myself through the rock and am now sinking into the earth’s mantle, on my way to the core. Down, down, down I fall.
In the midst of my spiraling thoughts, it comes to me.
A title for this book. Woman Down. Because that’s what I am.
How I feel. It perfectly describes the trajectory of my life, which will more than likely mirror Reya’s.
If I survive this, that is. The book may never get finished because I have no idea if I’m safe or doomed right now.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat painful as I force myself to meet his gaze. I can’t tell if he’s enjoying the power he holds over me or if he’s as lost in this twisted fantasy as I am.
“Are you going to tell my husband?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper, the question heavy with fear. It’s the one thing that could ruin me completely, destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to protect. If he tells Shephard, it’s all over.
He looks almost offended by the question, his brow furrowing as if the very idea is beneath him. “Do you really think I’d do that to you?” His voice is sharp, almost angry, as if he can’t believe I would even suggest it. But I can’t trust him. Not anymore.
“I have no idea what you’re capable of,” I say quietly, the truth of my words hitting me hard. I don’t know who this man is.
He’s quiet while his eyes trace every inch of my face as if he’s trying to memorize it, trying to burn this moment into his mind.
His gaze lingers on my mouth, his lips parting slightly, and for a brief second, I’m reminded of his taste.
I want to spit the taste out. I want to delete it from my memory.
I want every reminder of his touch and his mouth gone from my mind completely.
Saint leans forward, just a little, and brings his hand up to touch my trembling bottom lip with his fingers, the gesture almost tender. It’s as if he’s longing to kiss me again, a thought I can’t even fathom how he could be having right now.
“I’m capable of a lot of things,” he says softly, his voice thick with meaning. “But destroying you isn’t one of them.”
But you have.
I’m struggling to maintain control of my reactions, to keep my face neutral, my body still, but I’m beginning to think I might make it out of this cabin alive. I just have to keep my cool.
“Do me a favor, Petra,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “When you finish this book, dedicate it to Saint, because he fucked that story out of you.”
His words hit me like a slap, and I gasp—an instinctual, visceral reaction.
But it’s not fear that makes me gasp. No, it’s something much darker, something far more unsettling.
I gasp because I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling right now, but my body reacts in the complete opposite way from my mind.
My intellect is screaming at me to protect myself, to run. But my nerves and the warmth building in my stomach are craving the opposite. My body still wants him to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me.
I hate myself right now. I hate that I feel like two different people, warring over a monster. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just run? Why can’t I push him away or do something other than stand here, frozen under his gaze?
Quit being stupid, Petra! This isn’t a fucking book.
“I want to leave,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. The words come out shaky, more uncertain than I intended. It’s the truth—I do want to leave. My mind does, anyway.
He’s still staring at my mouth, his fingers grazing my lips with a touch so light it sends a shiver down my spine.
His eyes flick back to mine, locking me in place with a gaze so intense it feels like he’s seeing right through me, like he knows exactly what kind of battle my body is waging against my conscience.