Chapter Twenty-Three
“Finished,” Shephard says. He closes the book and drops it between us with a thud that sounds like a gavel banging in the quiet room.
We’re both lying in bed, and I’ve been pretending to focus on my laptop like I’m scrolling through emails, but I’ve been staring blankly at the screen in front of me.
I haven’t processed a single thing for the last hour.
I’ve been hyperaware of every page Shephard turned, every breath he took, as he made his way toward the last page of my latest book.
The book I pray he never finds out was inspired by actual events.
There’s always a certain strain in the air when Shephard reads my work—especially now, after everything that’s happened. I want him to love what I create, but with this one, I just don’t want him to see through me.
Shephard enjoys reading the actual book rather than an early manuscript. He loves feeling the weight of it in his hands. He has a metal bookmark he uses just for my novels.
He prefers to read the final, polished product, after I’ve already made all the changes.
He knows my writing habits almost as well as Nora does, so he likes me to work out the kinks before he reads the full story.
He likes seeing the culmination of months of revisions and edits in a final bound hardback.
I always give him the first copy a couple of weeks before the rest of the world gets to experience it.
This one is the one book I’ve been the most nervous to give him. And his opinion seems more important to me than ever. Maybe because I’m worried he recognized parts of me in Reya. I honestly fear that he might have.
“And?” I ask, my fingers still resting on the keyboard of my laptop, though I’m no longer pretending to type.
My voice betrays me with its shakiness. If there’s one thing about Shephard I admire, it’s his honesty.
He’s never sugarcoated his feedback. I’ve grown to appreciate that trait even more since leaving Saint standing in the doorway of that cabin all those months ago.
Honesty feels safe. It’s what I need.
I’ve been holding my breath for this moment, waiting to see if the truth I’ve hidden between the lines of the book would remain invisible to him.
Shephard pauses, turning to face me, the fabric of his silence stretching thin between us as he carefully considers his words.
“It was . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, his brow furrowing in concentration.
My heart clenches as I wait for whatever comes next, the seconds feeling agonizing.
“It was fucking thrilling, Petra. I think this might be my favorite book of yours so far.”
His words coat me like a balm, soothing the anxiety that’s been gnawing at me for weeks. I feel the compliment all the way to my core, a warmth spreading through me that I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Really?” I ask, the relief making my voice sound lighter, almost incredulous. I didn’t realize just how badly I needed his approval until I heard it.
Shephard leans forward, reaching across me to gently close my laptop, sliding it off the bed and onto the table behind him.
He moves with purpose, his gaze never leaving mine.
Then, without warning, he shifts, pulling me against him with an easy grace that makes my pulse quicken.
He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand moving to brush a stray lock of hair from my face.
His touch is gentle, affectionate, and it makes my heart swell with guilt.
How can I even smile at him when I’ve done such awful things to him?
He leans down and kisses my forehead, his lips hovering there for a moment before he pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I don’t know what made this one different,” he says, his voice quiet, almost reverent.
“But it felt . . . I don’t know. I can’t put it into words without insulting your other books.
” He pauses, smiling softly as his eyes trace my features.
“It felt authentic.” He kisses me again, this time on the lips, tenderly, then pulls back with a mischievous grin. “Kinda turned me on, honestly.”
He lowers his mouth to the spot just below my ear and presses a soft kiss there before whispering, “Who is Saint?”
My world stops spinning.
My heart. It instantly goes from a gentle thump to a thunderous pounding beneath my ribs. My breath catches, and I force myself to stay still, to not react too quickly, but inside, panic is clawing at me.
“Who?” I manage to ask, my voice so strained it barely slides up my throat.
He lifts his head, his eyes searching mine. There’s no anger, no accusation—just pure curiosity. He doesn’t know. He’s asking an innocent question, but my pulse races anyway, because I know.
“You dedicated the book to someone named Saint,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a playful smile.
The dedication.
I close my eyes, cursing myself for forgetting about that detail.
I’ve managed to compartmentalize so much of what happened with Saint that it hasn’t even occurred to me that Shephard would notice—or care—about the dedication.
But now it’s staring me in the face. It’s been six months since I turned in the book, and even longer since I wrote those words.
I only followed through with Saint’s final request because I was afraid of what he might do if I didn’t.
I didn’t want to risk making him angry. Or worse .
. . giving him a reason to show up here.
He already knows my home address, and because I’ve learned so little about him, I wouldn’t even know how to prevent him from showing up here.
“I don’t know who Saint is,” I lie, the words spilling out.
My voice sounds almost convincing, but I feel the falsity in it, the knot of guilt tightening in my stomach.
“I held a contest for my readers,” I add, hoping the lie will sound plausible.
“I chose someone at random to dedicate the book to.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the tension to crack, for him to call me out on my dishonesty. But instead, he laughs—a soft, genuine laugh that makes my insides twist. “That’s cool,” he says, his tone light. “I bet it’ll make that person’s year.”
I bet it will.
“Have you packed for the tour yet?”
“No. I’ll get to it tomorrow,” I say, relieved by the change in subject. “Sixteen stops this time, so I’ll have to take two suitcases.”
“Oh, big-timer,” he teases. “Nora still going with you?”
“Yep.” I force a smile, but inside, I feel like I’m suffocating at the thought of a book tour.
At having to lie to my readers about what inspired this book, and somehow doing it convincingly.
I’m scared to even do this tour, simply because it’s the first tour I’ve done since the fallout from my adaptation.
I don’t know what to expect, so adding lies into the promotion makes it even more nerve racking.
I just hope people show up. And that they show up with good intentions.
The lies I’ve been having to tell are beginning to stack on top of each other, threatening to bury me alive. I want to tell Shephard the truth, to let it all out, but I can’t. Not now.
Not ever.
Shephard leans in to kiss me again, and I let him, my lips moving against his, but my mind is far away. It’s back in that cabin, with Saint standing in the doorway, watching me leave. As much as I want to forget, I know I’ll never be able to escape what happened.
Shephard’s hand moves to my breast, so I part my thighs to give him what I know he wants. Within seconds, he’s inside me.
We have more sex now than we did before Saint came into my life.
I think part of it has to do with the fact that I feel like I’ve betrayed Shephard in so many ways, that making love to him is my Hail Mary.
If I give Shephard his favorite thing, maybe it’ll erase some of the terrible things I’ve done.
But I also make love to Shephard more often now because when he’s inside me, I close my eyes and pretend I’m being fucked by Saint.
No matter how hard I try not to, my thoughts always veer back to the thrill of everything Saint put me through.
As much as I hate him and myself for what happened, I can’t deny that my attraction to him was real.
The feelings my body experienced during the intimate moments with him were real.
And even though I live with constant guilt and regret, I’m still human.
I still have depraved fantasies that will never be spoken aloud to another human.
Which is why, when Shephard is fucking me, I imagine Saint in his place.
Because Shephard can’t read my thoughts.
Because I’m human. And no matter how much of a lesson I’ve learned in life, I can be whoever I want to be in my fantasy.
And in this particular fantasy, I am out on the lake in the boat with Saint, and he’s the one who just crawled on top of me after reading Woman Down.