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)
My hands are covering my face, my fingers trembling as I try to pull myself together. But then I hear it—the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. My heart leaps into my throat, and I freeze, too terrified to even look. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to face him, not like this. But I can feel him standing here.
I’m angry. God, I’m so angry.
I’m embarrassed, humiliated by the way things have spiraled out of control. But beneath it all, I’m still scared—terrified, even. I feel so powerless, and the last thing I want is to confront the man responsible for all this.
“God, Petra.” Saint’s voice breaks through the sound of the water, soft and full of remorse. “I am so sorry.”
His words hang in the air, but they don’t offer the comfort I need. He doesn’t get to apologize. Not after what he’s done. Not after the way he’s crossed every line. But even as my mind screams at him, as I tell myself that I should hate him for this, my body betrays me.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking.
I keep my hands over my face, not wanting him to see me like this, but I can feel his presence getting closer. I’m shocked when I feel the water shift, and then his arms wrap around me, gently pulling me against him. I can feel the wet fabric of his clothes pressing against my bare skin, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to react. He’s stepped into the shower with me, fully dressed, his clothes now soaking wet, but his arms are holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid to let go.
I don’t understand why I’m allowing him to do this. I don’t understand anything anymore.
I should push him away. I should scream at him, yell, do something to make him understand how wrong this all is. But instead, I stand here, leaning against his chest, my body trembling, my sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. As much as I hate myself for it, as much as I want to punch him, to make him feel even a fraction of the fear and confusion I’ve felt, I can’t deny that in this moment . . . I need him.
I need him to hold me. I need to feel like someone is here, like someone cares.
I think this might have been a terrible miscommunication.
The thought offers a small sense of solace, something to hold on to in the midst of this emotional storm.
“When you told me about your book,” Saint begins, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “I thought you were asking me to—”
I shake my head quickly, interrupting him before he can finish. “I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from crying. I’m too exhausted, too emotionally drained to rehash every detail of what happened. “I know,” I say again, because in a way, I do know. I did ask for something—I just didn’t know it would unfold like this.
I lower my hands from my face, letting them fall naturally around him. My arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I press my cheek against the wet fabric of his shirt. The heat from his body seeps into mine, and for a moment, I let myself feel comforted by his presence. I can’t tell if that makes me weak or if it’s just what I need right now, but I don’t let go. I hold on tighter.
“I don’t know if that’s what I was asking you,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “What we’ve been doing . . . it’s confusing. I barely know you, and then this . . .” My words trail off as the load of everything settles on my shoulders. The whirlwind of emotions, the passion, the fear—it’s all too much. I barely recognize my own feelings anymore, let alone understand what I’ve been asking of him.
Saint presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and then he just holds me. Quietly. Steadily. No words. Just the warmth of his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair, the feeling of being anchored after having been adrift for too long.
We stay like this for several minutes, the sound of the shower cascading around us, washing away the tension in small, soothing waves. My tears finally begin to subside, and I take a deep breath, pulling away slightly to look up at him. His eyes are filled with remorse, and I can see how much he regrets what happened, how much he wishes he could take it back. There’s a tenderness there that tugs at something deep inside me.
He lifts a hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb under my eye, wiping away the smudges of mascara that have streaked down my cheeks from all the crying. His touch is so soft, so careful, and it’s in this moment that I realize he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He never wanted to scare me. He just . . . misunderstood. Like I did.