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)
The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them. His face hardens instantly, a subtle but profound shift. His jaw clenches, his eyes darkening, and he pulls away from me, the distance suddenly vast between us. It’s like I took his infertility, his deepest wound, and diminished it, trivialized it with a careless, thoughtless comparison to my own self-inflicted marital woes. The accusation, though unspoken, hangs heavy in the air.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice filled with immediate, genuine contrition. “Saint, I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . .” I trail off, unable to find the words.
He holds up a hand, stopping me, his expression still etched with pain, but softened slightly now. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m not going tit for tat about this, but not being able to have kids at all is a hell of a lot harder than divorcing someone you have kids with.”
He’s right. His pain is immense because his dreams were shattered by something beyond his control. Mine . . . mine would be shattered by my own hand, simply because of boredom. It’s difficult to leave any relationship if there’s not a huge betrayal, especially when children are involved. Boredom and annoyance are likely not grounds for a divorce, but I’m worried that’s where it starts. The thoughts of escape. This glimpse of what my life could be like without Shephard.
It used to feel like his presence was air, lifting me up and making me lighter. Now, for whatever reason, he just feels more and more like a weight. Something else I have to carry to keep us all moving forward.
Saint looks out at the water again, his jaw working. Then, his voice lowers, almost to a confession, chilling me to the bone even in the warm sun. “When I was watching you say goodbye to your girls, when Shephard was there . . .” He pauses, and I hold my breath. “I was angry, Petra. So angry.” He turns his eyes to me, and they burn with an unsettling intensity. “I wanted you to get caught, so you’d leave him, so I could have what he takes for granted. What he barely sees anymore.”
The confession is a dark, dizzying plunge into his psyche, revealing a level of calculated malice that should repel me. But instead, a perverse thrill shoots through me. He wanted to destroy my life, to claim it for himself. And he almost did.
He leans in, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jaw. His eyes, burning with a mix of fury and desire, lock onto mine. And then, his lips descend, hard and hungry, claiming me completely. The kiss is fierce, a primal embrace of chaos. And then, right there, on the open water, beneath the broad, indifferent gaze of the afternoon sun, we have open sex, or maybe it’s the beginnings of making love, unashamed, a defiant act of rebellion against everything we’ve just confessed and every boundary we’ve shattered.
We pull into the small cove, the water lapping gently against the hull as Saint expertly maneuvers the boat toward the rickety wooden dock. The sun, lower now, casts long, stretching shadows across the water, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. We don’t speak, the quiet after our intense coupling thick and heavy.
As we begin the process of tying up the boat, securing it to the weathered pilings, our movements synchronized and efficient, a familiar anxiety begins to prickle at my skin. The real world, the one I’ve temporarily escaped, is rushing back in, demanding its due. My hands move mechanically, coiling a rope, but my mind is already back in the cabin, drifting further, to my house, to Shephard, to the delicate facade I have to maintain.
“I have to go home this weekend,” I say, the words feeling brittle, almost like a confession, the sudden return to mundane reality jarring.
“What? I thought you had another two weeks booked.”
I avoid his eyes, focusing instead on the knot I’m trying to tighten. “I don’t leave until Friday, and it’s just for two days. It’s my daughter’s birthday. I need to be there.”
Saint pauses, his large hands still on the rope, his movements ceasing. I feel his gaze on me, steady and intense, but I don’t look up. The silence stretches, taut with unspoken questions, with the reality of our separate lives.
He just nods. A single quiet nod. No questions about Shephard, no protestations, no demands. Just that simple, heavy acknowledgment. It’s both a relief and a subtle disappointment. Part of me, the part that craves his intensity, wanted a fight, a plea, a sign of his possessiveness. But he gives me none. He just accepts it.
When the boat is securely fastened, the ropes taut, he steps onto the dock. Instead of releasing my hand, which had somehow found its way into his during the tying process, he tightens his grip, coming to a pause.