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)
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to convince myself to fall back asleep. Just go back to sleep.
But something is off. I can’t place it at first, but there’s an eerie stillness in the air. The house is so quiet, like the world outside has gone mute. Too dark. My heart begins to race. Too silent. An instinctual alarm is going off in my chest. Too alone. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the drowsiness, but the unease only intensifies.
I open my eyes fully, and my gaze is immediately drawn to the bedroom door. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the feeling that I’m not alone, that something is waiting.
And then I see it.
A shadow.
It’s filling the doorway—dark and unmoving, blending into the blackness of the room but still distinguishable in its shape. The silhouette of a person. I can’t make out any details, but it’s there, and it’s watching me. A cold wave of terror crashes over me, weighing down on my chest like a vise grip.
This can’t be real.
For a moment, I’m paralyzed, unable to move, barely able to breathe. My body freezes in fear, my muscles locked tight as I stare at the figure in the doorway. I want to scream, but it’s like one of those nightmares where you try to call for help, but no sound comes out.
My throat feels tight, my voice trapped somewhere deep inside me.
I reach for my phone instinctively, my fingers fumbling on the bedspread, desperate to find it in the darkness. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I can’t think. I can’t focus on anything except the shadow, which is now moving.
The figure lunges forward, and in that split second, my body finally reacts. A jagged scream rips from my throat as I scramble to the other side of the bed. My legs tangle in the sheets as I try to pull away, to escape.
But I’m not quick enough.
A hand—large, strong—wraps around my ankle with a brutal grip, yanking me backward with such force that I lose all sense of balance. My hands claw at the blankets, trying to find something to hold on to, but it’s useless. I slide across the bed, my body dragged toward the figure. My phone slips from my fingers, tumbling off the mattress with a dull thud as it hits the floor.
I’m crying now as my chest heaves with panic. The hand around my ankle tightens, cold and unrelenting, pulling me closer to the edge of the bed. I kick out with my other leg, desperate to break free, but it’s no use. I’m trapped, helpless.
In the back of my mind, a thought flashes: Is this Saint?
But no—this feels worse. This feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
My body is racked with adrenaline like I’ve never felt before. “Stop!” I scream. I plead with whoever this is.
Could it be the owner of the cabin?
No. Louie wouldn’t be this strong. It can’t be him.
Terror surges through me, sharp and electric, every nerve on high alert. My heart pounds so violently in my chest, I’m sure it’s about to burst. My breaths are coming out in quick, ragged gasps, each one more desperate than the last.
“Saint, if this is you, please stop. Please.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. I try to recall everything I learned in self-defense class—the techniques, the moves, the strategies to fight back—but there’s no time to think. No time to react. Everything I learned feels distant, like a memory I can’t fully access.
Move, Petra. Do something!
Before I can even try, I’m being yanked off the bed with such force that I can barely process what’s happening. My feet flail wildly, searching for something—anything—to anchor myself to, but there’s nothing. The ground seems to slip out from under me as I’m dragged across the floor, the rough fabric of the carpet burning against my skin. I let out a scream full of terror, but it’s cut short as a hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me in an instant.
Please be Saint. Please be Saint.
The thought shoots through my mind like a lightning bolt, and I hate myself for it. Why am I hoping it’s Saint? Why? Even if he’s taken our little game too far and he’s here, breaking into my house in the dead of night just to scare me, his actions are still horrifying. They’re still inexcusable.
But deep down, I know why I’m hoping it’s him. Because if it’s Saint, then at least I know who it is. I know what this is about. I can reason with him, maybe. I can remind him of the boundaries, the unspoken rules we’ve created in this twisted thing between us.
But if it’s not him . . . the alternative is much, much worse.