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)
Petra, you are smarter than this. Stronger than this.
I press my hands against his chest, pushing him away from me with all the strength I can muster.
As soon as I break contact, he pulls back with a deliberate slowness that feels calculated. He takes a step back, creating a physical gap between us that mirrors the emotional one I’m desperately trying to put in place. For a split second, as our eyes meet, I see something in his gaze that I haven’t seen today—a flash of vulnerability.
It’s almost as if he doesn’t want me to leave. He’s hoping I’ll change my mind, hoping I’ll stay.
But I won’t. I can’t.
He’s fucking insane.
I don’t waste a single second. The moment that gap opens, I move. I push off the wall, my pulse sprinting frantically as I rush toward the bedroom door. My hand flies out to grab my phone from the floor, and I snatch it up without pausing. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, but I refuse to look back. I don’t want to see what’s in his eyes. I don’t want to know if he’s about to stop me.
I pocket my phone and grab my laptop from the table; my fingers grip it tightly as I head straight for the front door, swiping up my suitcase as I walk. My entire body is trembling, every muscle tense as I reach for the knob, praying that he won’t stop me. I pull the door open with a burst of adrenaline and step outside, the rain hitting me like a wake-up call.
I don’t look behind me, not even for a second.
I toss the suitcase and the laptop into the back seat of my car with shaking hands. The panic is still fresh, still raw, but I’m moving on autopilot now. I throw myself into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut. As soon as I’m inside, I immediately lock all the doors. The sound of the locks clicking into place feels like a small victory, but I’m not safe yet. I shove the key into the ignition and turn it with trembling fingers.
The engine roars to life, and I waste no time. I throw the car into reverse, my foot pressing hard on the gas pedal. Only then do I dare look up, my heart beating away in my chest like a drum.
Saint is standing in the doorway of the cabin, leaning casually against the frame. His eyes are locked on mine, watching me leave with a look I can’t quite decipher. There’s no anger in his expression, no rage. Just something calm, almost resigned. His posture is relaxed, his arms crossed over his chest, as if he’s content to just stand there and watch. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s letting me go too easily, that there’s something I’m missing.
I keep my eyes on him as I back down the driveway, my heart racing in my chest. I want to make sure he’s not coming after me, that this isn’t some sick game where he chases me down.
Right before I turn the wheel to get back onto the road, he lifts a hand and waves, the gesture so nonchalant, so normal for such a terrifying moment. It’s as if our parting is just a casual goodbye, like two old friends, and I’m not fleeing, not running for my life with fear clogging my lungs.
My foot slams down on the gas pedal. The tires churn against the gravel, and I take off, speeding away from that cabin as fast as I can, my pulse hammering in my throat. The farther I drive, the harder the tears fall.
Every foot of space I put between my car and Saint releases more of the fear, more of the panic, until I’m choking on the sobs that have been trapped in my chest. I cry, hard, for miles.
I can’t wrap my mind around what just happened. How did I let it get this far?
I think about Shephard. About my girls. Their faces flash in my mind, and a fresh wave of guilt crashes over me. How could I have been so selfish? How could I have put them in danger like this? The thought makes my stomach turn. What if he decides to come after them? What if my actions have made them targets in whatever twisted game Saint is playing?
I’m not even sure they’re safe from him, or that I’m safe from him, but he’s not following me, and I cling to that fact. I can only hope that his sick fantasy has played itself out, that he’s satisfied with whatever he got from me and that he won’t take it any further in the future. But that hope feels fragile, like something I’m clinging to out of sheer desperation.