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)
He answers on the third ring, a deliberate pause that makes my nerves hum with anticipation. “I figured I’d hear from you before you went to bed.” His voice, when it comes through the line, is maddeningly casual, an easy, almost lazy drawl, as if he’s just woken up from a pleasant nap.
“What the fuck was that?” I snap. The words come out filled with the crushing weight of everything I’m feeling.
“You’re married,” he snaps back, his voice losing its playfulness instantly, turning cold and hard, like tempered steel. There’s no warmth left in his tone now, just an edginess that slices through me, an immediate counterattack. His words are heavy with accusation, laced with judgment, as if he has any right to condemn me, as if he’s not the primary instigator of this entire, devastating mess, the architect of my current torment.
“So are you,” I bite back, my hand tightening around the phone so hard my knuckles ache, pressing the device painfully against my ear. My voice is low, a guttural growl, barely controlled, a raw, strained whisper, as if I’m holding on to the last shred of patience I have, the final, fraying thread of my sanity.
“I never lied about it,” he says, his words cutting through me like a knife, cold and precise. His tone is flat, emotionless, devoid of any inflection, like he’s stating a factual truth that cannot be argued with, an undeniable, inconvenient reality.
And the worst part is, he’s right. He never did lie about being married. He laid it all out, clear and uncompromising. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. I was the one who hid, who pretended, who built a fragile facade around my life. The realization is a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, a self-inflicted wound.
I glance instinctively toward the living room window, my heart racing as I check to make sure Shephard is still in the bathroom, still safely hidden behind the monotonous sound of the running water. I take a deep, shaky breath, steadying myself before I speak, finding a sliver of composure amid the chaos. “I technically didn’t lie about it either,” I say, my voice quieter now, more controlled, laced with a calculated defiance. “You never asked.”
There’s a long, excruciating pause on the other end of the call, the silence stretching out between us like a vast, dark chasm. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost a whisper. “Are you going to fuck him tonight?”
The question hits me like a physical punch to the gut, a brutal blow that knocks the air clean out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and reeling, gasping for air. My throat tightens, suddenly constricted, but I feel the chill of arousal build in my stomach. “He’s my goddamn husband, Saint. What do you think?”
How dare he ask that. How dare he make me answer.
“So that’s a no?” The playfulness is back in his voice, instantly, a light, maddening teasing lilt returning, as if he’s pushing me, testing me, seeing how far he can go, how much he can unravel me.
He isn’t mad at all. Not really. This is part of the game to him, a meticulously crafted performance. He’s enjoying this, enjoying my torment, my confusion.
And then, with a jolt of ice-cold clarity, a chilling realization that pierces through the fog of my anger, I realize what he’s doing. Why he showed up here today to meet Shephard. Why he played up the stern, unyielding officer. He’s embodying the very things I wanted Cam to be. Controlling, possessive, jealous. He’s playing the role I created for him in Reya’s story, the role of Cam, the obsessive, dangerous lover.
And in this moment, consumed by a confusing, terrifying mixture of pure terror and perverse fascination, I hate him for it. And I love him for it.
I hate him for seeing through me, for knowing exactly what buttons to push, for pulling me so relentlessly into the fiction, making it horrifyingly real. He’s not just playing a role; he’s weaponizing my own desires against me.
Showing up at my house today was just him pushing the limits of my experience. He wanted me to know what it felt like to be scared my affair was about to be found out, but he had no desire for Shephard to actually find out.
“You’re making me insane,” I whisper. “I didn’t expect you to take things this far.”
I can almost hear the grin in his words. “Do you want me to stop?”
I think about that for a minute. I think about Shephard. I think about what it would do to him if he found out what I’ve done. What I’m doing.
“Just say the word, Petra. You’ll never see me again if that’s what you need.”
A knot forms in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.”