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)
“Okay. Thirty days,” I say, capitulating, just wanting the conversation to end, to usher them out. “Love you.” I lean in one last time and press a quick kiss to each cheek.
I close their car door with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the deceptive quiet of the morning air, and I take a deep, shaky breath, knowing that the next week will feel far longer for me than it will for them, an eternity stretching out ahead.
As I step back from the car, Shephard walks toward me, his arms already outstretched for a hug, his face a picture of relief and contentment. He pulls me into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping me, familiar and solid, and I lean into him for just a moment, trying to let the sheer physicality of his presence ground me, pull me back from the edge. He kisses my cheek, the gesture tender and reassuring, a practiced kindness, but it does little to soothe the storm swirling inside me, the relentless turmoil.
“I’m glad we came,” he says, his voice soft but filled with an easy affection that, in other circumstances, would be deeply comforting. To him, this visit was just a nice break, a chance to reconnect as a family, a chance for me to “get back on track,” for him to remind me that I’m not alone out here, struggling in the shadow of my career’s recent decline. “Maybe last night was the inspiration you needed to finally kick-start things again,” he adds with a smile, his eyes twinkling with a hopeful optimism that feels completely out of place.
He has no idea. He doesn’t know how sickeningly right he is, but for all the wrong reasons. Last night did bring me inspiration—just not the kind he’s imagining, not the kind that would ever see the light of day in a book for general consumption. The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt rising in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I swallow it down, forcing it deep inside where it can’t hurt me right now, where it can’t betray me.
“I’m glad you came too.” I force a quick, almost perfunctory peck on his lips, trying to keep the facade in place, to keep the flimsy walls from crumbling down around me. I step back as he climbs into the car, the girls already waving eagerly from the back seat, their small hands pressed against the glass. I plaster on a wide, practiced smile and wave back. I keep waving until the car disappears down the winding gravel driveway, until I can no longer see their small faces pressed against the windows, until the last glint of chrome vanishes beyond the trees.
The moment the car is out of sight, my smile drops, evaporating from my face like smoke. The relief I feel is instant. A sharp, exhilarating rush.
When I’m certain they’re gone and can no longer hear the rumble of the engine, I turn and head back into the house. I’m moving on autopilot, my steps quick and purposeful, almost frantic, my mind racing with one singular, overwhelming thought: I need to call Saint. It’s not a question. It’s a primal, desperate need.
He’s all I’ve been able to think about since last night, his audacious presence lingering in my mind like a dark, intoxicating shadow I can’t shake, clinging to my thoughts, weaving through every fleeting moment of false calm. I need to hear his voice again, to ground myself in whatever this terrifying, exhilarating thing is between us, this dance that feels utterly out of my control.
I don’t get far. The moment I open the door, I’m left frozen in place.
Saint is somehow standing right in front of me, having materialized as if from thin air, his tall, imposing frame blocking my path completely, filling the doorway. His eyes, dark and piercing, are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
A million questions flood my mind all at once, a chaotic, unbidden torrent. How did he get inside? I locked the doors last night, I was so careful! How long has he been here? Has he been watching me? Watching Shephard?
I feel utterly exposed, incredibly vulnerable, like the very walls of my supposedly safe space have been irrevocably breached, and I have absolutely no control over what happens next. The familiar, quiet cabin suddenly feels like a cage.
Saint doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His presence speaks volumes as he keeps his gaze on me while he steps aside to allow me to pass. Without warning or an invite, he follows me inside, then shuts the door with a startling slam. The sound of the lock echoing in the otherwise silent room seals us in. His hand moves quickly, with a chilling efficiency, as he continues to the next lock, a sharp twist of the dead bolt, the thud reverberating through me. Before I can even process what’s happening, he grabs me and pushes me against the door. The sudden force of his body presses against mine, pinning me to the solid wood, trapping me, and I can feel the radiating heat from his skin, the raw, barely leashed power in his touch, in the taut muscles of his chest against my own.