Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Without thinking, I spin around and rush toward the bathroom. I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps quickening as he realizes what I’m trying to do. My hands fumble for the bathroom door. My entire body is shaking, but I have to get the door locked. I have to make the call before he gets to me.
I don’t make it.
Just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the doorknob, Saint’s grip clamps down hard on my arm. The force of it nearly pulls me off my feet, and before I can react, he yanks me back, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. My heart feels like it’s about to explode as I watch in horror while he rips my cell phone from my hand. Time slows, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I helplessly watch him glance down at the screen. His face tightens with anger when he sees the emergency number already pulled up, though not yet connected.
I was so close.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Petra!” His voice is sharp, laced with fury, as he tosses the phone behind him with a careless flick of his wrist. The sound of it hitting the wall makes me flinch. The next thing I know, he’s pushing my shoulders hard enough that I stumble and fall back onto the bed. I scramble, crawling frantically toward the headboard, trying to put as much space between us as possible. My mind is screaming at me to keep moving, to find a way out, but I’m cornered.
Saint stands at the foot of the bed, his hands flexing at his sides, his jaw clenched. The look in his eyes is unrecognizable, a mix of betrayal and fury. “What would you even tell them when they showed up here?” His voice is mocking, dripping with disdain. “That I role-played too well?”
“You’ve been impersonating a cop!” I shout, my voice shaking with anger and fear. Every word is like venom on my tongue. I can feel the rage boiling inside me, mixing with the terror, making my body tremble uncontrollably.
Saint throws his hands up in exasperation, letting out a bitter laugh. “You wanted me to!” His voice rises, frustration boiling over as he glares at me. “Your online Q&As are like an open invitation into your life! You’ve told your readers for years what lake you come to. You let the whole world know when you’re here alone. You even answered my question when I asked if you would be willing to do something like this. You said, ‘I would do anything to be a better writer.’”
The realization hits me like a punch to the throat. Oh, my God. My pulse stutters in my chest, and I stare at him, wide eyed. He’s the one who asked that question? He thinks I was asking for this?
My stomach twists in revulsion as the reality of his delusion sinks in. “That wasn’t an invitation to show up here and lie to me,” I snap, my voice cracking under the pressure of holding back tears. I want to scream, but my voice feels small, trapped under the crushing realization of just how far he’s taken this fantasy.
Saint’s eyes flash with something darker. His tone becomes flat, almost indifferent, as he says, “We’ve both been lying, Petra. You aren’t innocent in this.”
I shake my head, my body rigid with anger. “You attacked me in the middle of the night!” I spit the words at him, my fists clenching the blanket beneath me, knuckles white with tension.
“You asked me to!” he shouts back, his voice booming through the cabin, echoing off the walls like an accusation.
I shake my head adamantly, my whole body trembling with rage. He’s not turning this around on me. I didn’t ask for this. Just because I said in a live video that I wanted experience does not mean that was an invitation for him to actually locate me and act out some twisted fantasy he concocted in his head.
“You pretended to be someone you’re not,” I say through clenched teeth, my voice barely contained.
“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.