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 turns his head slowly, his eyes finally meeting mine. There’s no apology, no explanation, just that familiar, unsettling depth. “It’s different now.” His voice is low and calm.
“How is it different?” I challenge, my arms crossing over my chest, a defensive barrier.
He shifts, turning more fully toward me, his elbow resting on the center console. “You’re in danger.”
My brow furrows. “Danger? What are you talking about?” A cold trickle of unease joins the anger.
“Reya, you’ve received death threats. I can’t let you go unprotected.”
Good fucking God.
I stare at him, a snort of disbelief escaping me, sharp and involuntary. “I’m at my home. This is my daughter’s birthday. I don’t have time for this shit, Saint.”
“Reya,” he says.
“Stop calling me that! This is ridiculous. You’ve found a flimsy reason to intrude on my personal space, and I’m angry.”
He holds my gaze, unwavering, his expression unreadable. And then he finally breaks character, leaning his head back against the headrest. He allows an expression to finally reach his eyes, and maybe I’m just hoping, but he actually looks a little remorseful.
But then the asshole has the audacity to grin. “Petra,” he says, finally using my actual name. “Relax.” He tries to slip a reassuring hand up to my neck, but I push it away.
“Do not tell me to relax when you’re literally sitting outside my home.”
He seems genuinely surprised by my reaction. He angles toward me a bit more. “Are you worried I’m here to confront your husband?”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re capable of. It’s fucking terrifying.”
He immediately drops the whole act, no more grin, no more cockiness. He transforms back into the Saint I had on the boat, his eyes reassuring, his posture comforting. “Petra,” he repeats. His voice is quiet, almost a plea, the barest hint of vulnerability in its tone. “I would never do that.”
“You need to leave,” I say, my voice firm, despite the tremor in my hands that I desperately try to hide.
“Wait. Just wait a second,” he says, grabbing my hand.
“No. I can’t function with you here. I need you to leave. This is not okay.”
He doesn’t argue further. He just watches me for another long, silent moment, those dark eyes dissecting me. Then, a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Nothing else needs to be said between us. I grab the door handle, my fingers fumbling slightly, and step out, the sounds of the party rushing back in, louder, more vibrant, almost overwhelming after the contained silence of the car.
I walk back toward the house, every muscle in my back tense. I finally hear him start the car and pull away.
I walk straight into the house and to the bathroom. I lock the door and do everything I can not to have a complete meltdown.
This is my home.
I think he might be crazy.
I think I might be crazy.
Chapter Nineteen
I am. I’m crazy.
Because what sane person would return to the location where she’s vulnerable to a man who drove two hours to sit outside her house without permission?
Me. That’s who. But my God, I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s a constant tug, like a thick rope loops from my chest to Saint’s, and I’m constantly being pulled until I’m too exhausted to fight that pull.
Following attraction and intrigue over instinct and common sense is a very good description of crazy.
The hum of the road beneath my tires is the only consistent sound in the oppressive silence of the car. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, a mirror to the tension coiling in my gut. The sunlight feels harsh today, glinting off the evergreens that line the winding drive. Every mile closer to the cabin feels like a tightening spring, a coil of dread and anticipation.
It’s been a whole day since I told him to leave. He hasn’t reached out since. Not a text, not a call, not even a cryptic emoji since he drove away.
My phone, lying face down on the passenger seat, feels useless to me. I’ve checked it a hundred times, hoping for a flicker of something, anything, just to know he’s not a phantom, that he really did have the audacity to show up at my house and it wasn’t a fever dream. The silence of my phone screams.
My jaw aches from clenching. I told myself I was coming here to finish work, but deep down, I know I’m coming because he’s here and I’m not done with him. Because I’ve been pulled into his orbit and never want to be pushed out.
The turnoff appears, a gravel road whose crunch beneath my tires is starting to feel like the sound of coming home. The familiar trees close in, tall and silent, casting long shadows. My breath hitches. Please, don’t let him be there. Please, let him be there. I realize I’m begging for two very different things right now. I am so confused.