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)
Deprived? If only he knew how deep my deprivation goes, how long it’s been festering beneath the surface, a silent, aching void, waiting for something—someone—like Saint to bring it to life, to tear open the dam. But I don’t say that. I try to say something an innocent wife and mother would say in this moment to maintain the fragile peace.
“I think I was too loud. I hope I didn’t wake the girls.” My voice is muffled against his chest.
Shephard chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. “They’re heavy sleepers,” he murmurs, his voice laced with contentment, before pulling away from me to grab a towel from the nightstand. I watch as he wipes it between my legs, careful and considerate. It’s a small gesture, but one I’ve always appreciated about him—that he takes care of me, even in these intimate, vulnerable moments. It’s one of the things that makes him a good husband, one of the things that used to make me feel so safe, so cherished with him.
But in the times I’ve been with Saint, there was no cleaning. There was no neatness. We were sticky and messy, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to like it, a primal, animalistic acceptance. And surprisingly, terrifyingly, I liked it too.
Saint is everything Shephard isn’t, and that’s both good and bad. It’s a chasm, a thrilling divide.
Shephard adjusts the blanket to cover us, his body warm and familiar beside mine. He rolls over onto his side, his back to me, the ultimate gesture of postcoital comfort and trust. He murmurs, “Good night.”
I roll away from him, pulling the covers tighter, hugging my pillow tightly as I stare into the darkness, the faint moonlight painting shadows on the wall. “Good night,” I whisper, but the word feels hollow, like it’s meant for someone else.
Someone who’s no longer standing outside my window.
I need to mentally buckle up, because the ride Saint is taking me on is getting way too unstable.
Chapter Sixteen
I buckle the girls into their car seats and then brush my fingers through their soft hair. Chloe wiggles a little, her usual restless energy bubbling over, a kinetic force of nature, as she fidgets impatiently with the strap. Andi, in contrast, sits perfectly still, gazing up at me with wide, innocent eyes, like twin pools of clear water.
I can feel their anticipation of resuming their familiar routines. I’m anticipating returning to my own routine I’ve set here. But there’s also the familiar tug at my heart that always accompanies our partings, no matter how often I do it, no matter how much I tell myself I need the solitude to write. I lean down and kiss them both on the forehead, my lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual, inhaling the sweet, faint scent of sleep and childhood.
“I’ll be home in a week for your birthday,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a cheerfulness I don’t feel, even though the words catch in my throat like a dry and uncomfortable lump.
One week feels like an eternity right now, like I’ll have so many more moments with Saint between now and my trip home for the party next weekend. And then I’ll come back for another week. A final week with Saint, with my laptop, with my thoughts. I really do think I’ll walk away from this cabin for good with an entire book.
Maybe it will have all been worth it.
“How long is a week?” Andi asks, her voice small and curious, a tiny, piping sound, her eyes sparkling with that endless thirst for knowledge, her innate wonder. She’s still trying to grasp the concept of time.
Before I can answer, Chloe jumps in with the unshakable confidence only a five-year-old can possess. “It’s only thirty days,” she says matter-of-factly, her tone full of certainty, as if she’s the undisputed authority on all things time related. She crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture of absolute conviction, proud of her declaration, and Andi nods, as if her big sister’s word is absolute law, etched in stone.
I can’t help but smile at Chloe’s firm assertion, even though it’s entirely, hilariously wrong. “A week is only seven days,” I correct gently, knowing this will probably turn into a back-and-forth debate that neither of us will win. I tuck a stray strand of Chloe’s hair behind her ear.
Chloe shakes her head, her brow furrowing in frustration, a determined frown. “No, it’s thirty,” she insists, her voice rising just a little, imbued with a fierce conviction, determined to make her point, to defend her teacher’s wisdom. “Sometimes thirty-one. My teacher said it.”
I suppress a weary laugh, not wanting to start a battle I have no interest in fighting, especially not now. I know I could patiently explain the difference between days and weeks and months, the nuances of the calendar, but my patience is threadbare. I just need them to leave, need them to be safely away from here, before Saint pulls another horrifying stunt and shows up while they’re still here. The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.