CHAPTER TEN
It’s too bright.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the entire bathroom is suddenly flooded in bright white light.
Rather than calm me, it only makes things worse. The fact that the power is back on—just like that—proves one thing. Saint was the one who turned it off in the first place. He was in control the entire time. He’s the reason I was left in the dark, terrified, alone.
And then I hear it—the soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Petra?” Saint’s voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the gentleness in his tone, the concern. It’s the same voice he’s always used with me, the voice that once made me feel safe. Now, it only makes me feel more trapped.
“Get . . . out,” I manage to choke out between sobs. I try to sound angry, but my voice betrays me. It’s thin and weak, filled with fear instead of fury. I should be angry. I am angry, but right now, all I can feel is scared.
The door creaks open, and I feel my stomach drop. My legs are shaking so hard, I can barely stand. My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it.
“Petra,” he says softly, stepping into the room. His voice is calm, soothing, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside me. “Petra, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought I wanted you to attack me?” I scream, my voice cracking with emotion. I shove the shower curtain aside, using part of it to hide myself, but I need to look him in the eye. Tears continue streaming down my face as I glare at him through the haze of water and steam. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping as if my words have physically hurt him. But I don’t care. I don’t care if he’s sorry. I don’t care if he regrets what he did. He crossed a line, a line I never thought he would cross, and there’s no coming back from that.
I yank the shower curtain shut, and then I close my eyes, trying to block out the confusion, the whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Did I think
he’d never cross this line?
Or did I ask him to do this?
My thoughts scatter in all directions as I search for some logical explanation, a reason why Saint would take things this far. I replay every conversation, every look, every word exchanged between us, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t
find anything that justifies this.
No. I didn’t.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask him to break into my cabin in the middle of the night, to terrify me, to tie me to a chair. All I did was tell him about the book, share the inner workings of my writing process. It wasn’t an invitation to scare the living shit out of me. It wasn’t supposed to be an open door for him to step into my life and confuse me so badly that I thought I was about to fucking die.
But here we are, and I can’t help but wonder . . . Did he assume I wanted this? Did he think I was asking for this? For him to take over my
life, my space, my thoughts?
Did I confuse him?
I don’t even know what to think anymore. I’m so wrapped up in the emotions of everything since he walked into my life, in the intensity of what’s been happening, that I don’t trust myself to make sense of any of it.
Do I even have the right to be angry at him for doing this?
The thought stabs at me, sharp and cruel. I hate that I’m questioning myself, hate that I’m doubting my own feelings. But the truth is, I don’t know if I have the right to be angry.
Somewhere deep inside, a small, shameful part of me wonders if this is what I hoped for. If, on some subconscious level, I craved this chaotic dark thrill.
Did I subconsciously want this to happen?
The question burns through me, leaving a trail of guilt and confusion in its wake. I don’t want to believe that I did. I don’t want to think that I somehow invited this madness into my life. But the doubt is there, clinging in the corners of my mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I’m responsible for all this.
I lean against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over me, mingling with the tears that won’t stop falling. I feel so small, so lost in this
moment, trapped between wanting to lash out and wanting to curl up and
disappear.
My sobs are quieter now, more resigned.
Did I even lock the front door last night?
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
No. I didn’t.
I know I didn’t.
After Saint and I parted ways, I was so consumed by the rush of inspiration, so eager to get everything out of my head and onto the page, that I took my laptop to the bedroom as soon as I got home and I wrote until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
I’ve been going on writing retreats for years, and in all those nights, I’ve never forgotten to lock my doors. But last night . . . last night, I did. I left myself exposed, vulnerable. And now, standing in this shower, I’m paying the price for that mistake.
My hands are covering my face, my fingers trembling as I try to pull myself together. But then I hear it—the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. My heart leaps into my throat, and I freeze, too terrified to even look. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to face him, not like this.
But I can feel him standing here.
I’m angry. God, I’m so angry.
I’m embarrassed, humiliated by the way things have spiraled out of control. But beneath it all, I’m still scared—terrified, even. I feel so powerless, and the last thing I want is to confront the man responsible for all this.
“God, Petra.” Saint’s voice breaks through the sound of the water, soft and full of remorse. “I am so sorry.”
His words hang in the air, but they don’t offer the comfort I need. He doesn’t get to apologize. Not after what he’s done. Not after the way he’s crossed every line. But even as my mind screams at him, as I tell myself that I should hate him for this, my body betrays me.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking.
I keep my hands over my face, not wanting him to see me like this, but I can feel his presence getting closer. I’m shocked when I feel the water shift, and then his arms wrap around me, gently pulling me against him. I can feel the wet fabric of his clothes pressing against my bare skin, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to react. He’s stepped into the shower with me,
fully dressed, his clothes now soaking wet, but his arms are holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid to let go.
I don’t understand why I’m allowing him to do this. I don’t understand anything anymore.
I should push him away. I should scream at him, yell, do something to make him understand how wrong this all is. But instead, I stand here, leaning against his chest, my body trembling, my sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. As much as I hate myself for it, as much as I want to punch him, to make him feel even a fraction of the fear and confusion I’ve felt, I can’t deny that in this moment . . . I need him.
I need him to hold me. I need to feel like someone is here, like someone cares.
I think this might have been a terrible miscommunication.
The thought offers a small sense of solace, something to hold on to in the midst of this emotional storm.
“When you told me about your book,” Saint begins, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “I thought you were asking me to—”
I shake my head quickly, interrupting him before he can finish. “I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from crying. I’m too exhausted, too emotionally drained to rehash every detail of what happened. “I know,” I say again, because in a way, I do know. I did ask for something—I just didn’t know it would unfold like this.
I lower my hands from my face, letting them fall naturally around him.
My arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I press my cheek against the wet fabric of his shirt. The heat from his body seeps into mine, and for a moment, I let myself feel comforted by his presence. I can’t tell if that makes me weak or if it’s just what I need right now, but I don’t let go. I hold on tighter.
“I don’t know if that’s what I was asking you,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “What we’ve been doing . . . it’s confusing. I barely know you, and then this . . .” My words trail off as the load of everything settles on my shoulders. The whirlwind of emotions, the passion, the fear— it’s all too much. I barely recognize my own feelings anymore, let alone understand what I’ve been asking of him.
Saint presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and then he just holds me. Quietly. Steadily. No words. Just the warmth of his arms around me, the
steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair, the feeling of being anchored after having been adrift for too long.
We stay like this for several minutes, the sound of the shower cascading around us, washing away the tension in small, soothing waves.
My tears finally begin to subside, and I take a deep breath, pulling away slightly to look up at him. His eyes are filled with remorse, and I can see how much he regrets what happened, how much he wishes he could take it back. There’s a tenderness there that tugs at something deep inside me.
He lifts a hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb under my eye, wiping away the smudges of mascara that have streaked down my cheeks from all the crying. His touch is so soft, so careful, and it’s in this moment that I realize he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He never wanted to scare me. He just . . . misunderstood. Like I did.
He was just trying to help me. To push me into a feeling I’ve never experienced before.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “Truly. That night, I thought you were going into detail about what happens to Reya because it was your way of . . . I don’t know. Giving me instructions.”
For the first time since I met him, I feel embarrassment coming from him.
I nod slowly, feeling the stiffness between us start to loosen, the fear dissolving into something softer. “Okay,” I say, my voice fragile but certain.
“Just . . . make sure I’m actually asking you to do something before you do it from now on. Don’t assume.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice, a residual trace of the panic I felt earlier, but I mean what I say.
His expression softens even more. “I promise.” His hand remains on my cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin there, as if he’s trying to reassure me, to ground me in this moment. He searches my eyes, and then he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”
The question hangs in the air, and for a split second, I consider it. Part of me thinks I should tell him to go. That I need space to process what just happened, to get a handle on my emotions. But I can’t bring myself to say the words. As much as I was terrified of him a few minutes ago, it wasn’t him I was scared of. It was the character he was playing. The situation we both created, however unintentionally.
I can’t fault him for that. Not entirely.
I shake my head, quickly, instinctively. “No,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “But can we just . . . I don’t want to pretend tonight.” I’m too tired to keep up the charade. I don’t have the energy to slip into the roles we’ve been playing. Tonight, I just want things to be simple and real.
Saint nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. He pulls me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around me again, and whispers, “Okay.
Let’s just be us.”
Just us.
That shouldn’t make me feel as good as it does. After everything that’s happened, after the fear and confusion and all the lines we’ve crossed, I shouldn’t be able to find comfort in those words. But somehow, I do. A warmth spreads through me, something unexpected but welcome. His words seep into me, soothing my anxiety, and for the first time since he stepped into this shower, I feel a little bit of peace.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, pressing his lips to my forehead. “So sorry.”
“I know,” I reply. And I do know. I can feel his remorse in every touch, every word, and while I know it’s not enough to erase what happened, it’s enough for now. Enough to help me breathe again.
I start to orient myself more to the situation. I realize just how bright it is as I stand here, water dripping off my skin under the downpour of the shower, acutely aware of every inch of my body exposed in front of him.
Other than a few heated kisses, I’m not sure I’ve experienced enough with this man to feel comfortable being completely naked under his gaze, especially in the bright light of this bathroom. It’s an odd vulnerability that I can’t shake.
How am I supposed to get out of this shower without his eyes being fully on me?
As if he can sense the shift in my mood, Saint lifts his gaze away from me with surprising gentleness, like he’s attuned to my every thought.
Without saying a word, he reaches out of the shower for a towel hanging on a nearby hook. The movement is fluid, practiced, as though he’s done this a thousand times before in a thousand different situations, always knowing exactly what to do to ease whoever he’s with. He turns off the water, and his touch is careful when he wraps the towel around me. It’s not just the towel that feels like a protective layer, but also the way he handles me. Soft.
Noninvasive. Respectful.
Such a huge contrast to mere minutes ago.
He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, long enough to feel reassuring but not overbearing. Then, just as quietly as he wrapped me in the towel, he steps out of the shower, leaving me with the privacy I need.
The moment he’s out of the shower, he pulls his soaking-wet shirt off and glances down at it, his brow furrowing as if he’s suddenly at a loss for what to do next. It’s a small, humanizing moment, one that makes me realize he’s not as infallible as I sometimes imagine him to be. Even Saint, with all his control and confidence, doesn’t know what to do with a wet shirt.
I step out of the shower carefully, wrapping the towel tighter around me, and reach into the cabinet to grab him a fresh one. “I’ll dry your clothes,” I say, handing him the towel. “A towel is the closest thing I have to something that’ll fit you.”
He nods, giving me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I slip out of the bathroom, the feeling of control creeping back into my chest as I wait for him to open the door and hand me his wet clothes. There’s something oddly satisfying about knowing he’s reliant on me right now, that he can’t leave before his clothes are dry. In a strange way, it gives me a sense of power.
When he finally hands me the damp bundle of fabric, I take it to the laundry room and toss his clothes into the dryer. The mechanical hum of the machine is almost soothing, a stark contrast to the erratic pounding of my heart just moments ago. He can’t leave yet, I think, and the thought brings a subtle sense of relief. He’ll have to stay longer than he has the other times he’s been here, and for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I want him to stay.
Even after everything that just happened.
I reenter the kitchen after exiting the laundry room and find Saint standing at the stove, the towel tied low around his waist, his broad back facing me as he sets a teapot on the burner. The sight of him like this, so casual, almost domestic, sends a ripple of warmth through me and helps to ease my anger even more.
“Want some hot tea?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me with a gentle expression.
“I’d love some,” I reply, my voice softer than I expected. I’m still wearing nothing but a towel, the fabric damp against my skin, and for a moment, I feel a bit more exposed than I’d like. But there’s something
about the sight of Saint—this version of him, vulnerable in nothing but a towel, in the middle of my kitchen—that makes me feel strangely at ease.
It’s not the same as before, when I felt like I had to hide. Now, the playing field feels more even.
While he focuses on the tea, I slip into the robe I wore the night he first showed up here. It’s familiar, a layer of comfort that feels just right for this moment. The memory of that first night flits through my mind—how exposed I felt, how nervous I was in front of him. Now, it feels different.
The power dynamic has shifted somehow. And now that he’s the one standing here half naked, with nothing but a towel wrapped around him, I feel more . . . comfortable. Even despite the awful misunderstanding between us, I feel more in control now. His position of vulnerability helps me shed the fear that consumed me earlier.
Oddly enough, putting on anything more than this robe would make me feel overdressed, like the moment calls for simplicity. I tighten the belt around my waist, letting the fabric fall loosely over my skin as I walk back into the kitchen. The scent of the tea begins to fill the room, warm and inviting, and I lean against the counter, watching as Saint finishes preparing it.
I catch his eye, and for the first time since that terrifying moment in the shower, I feel a sense of calm settling between us. Maybe it’s the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the low hum of the kettle, or the fact that for once,
there are no pretenses, no games.
It’s just us.
Saint and Petra.
I use the time it takes him to prepare the tea to regroup. I head back to the bathroom and look in the mirror, and my hair is a frightening wet mess.
I blow-dry it and then pull it up into a knot on top of my head. When I go to put the blow-dryer back in the drawer, I see my bottle of Xanax. I sigh with relief and open the bottle and swallow one.
When I walk out of the bedroom to rejoin Saint in the kitchen, he’s pouring two cups of tea.
Saint without a shirt is exactly how I described Cam in the book.
Rippled muscles across his back; a narrow waist; tanned, smooth skin.
I’m going to need to go back and rewrite how I described his arms, though. Now that I know the astounding strength in them, I’m aware what I have written does not do them justice. I fought with everything I had earlier,
and he reacted like I wasn’t even trying. Knowing he would use that strength to protect me feels comforting.
Saint slides my cup of tea toward me. “Here you go,” he says, handing me the mug. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and for a split second, I feel that familiar spark, the one that’s always there between us.
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the mug to my lips and taking a sip. The tea is hot, almost too hot, but the warmth spreads through me, steadying the frayed edges of my nerves.
We stand here in the kitchen, sipping our tea, both of us wrapped in towels, and for a moment, it feels like the most normal thing in the world.
The Xanax is kicking in, and it’s exactly what I needed after what happened.
Saint is watching me while he takes a slow sip of his tea. I want to ask him so many questions, but I also prefer the mystery that surrounds him. I know very little about him other than his name and his occupation. But if I ask too many questions, the answers might contradict all the ways I’ve built his character up in my mind.
Saint sets his tea on the counter and then takes my cup from my hands and does the same. He slides his hands down my back until both of his hands are gripping my ass. Then he lifts me and sets me on the counter next to the stove.
He takes my hand gently, lifting it toward him as his eyes drop to my wrist. His fingers trace over the red marks left by the rope, and the contrast of his warm, tender touch against the remnants of restraint sends a shiver over me.
He lifts my other hand, repeating the same motion, his thumbs running back and forth over the sensitive areas where the rope dug into my skin.
There’s a softness in his eyes as he studies my wrists, a rare moment of vulnerability from him, and I can feel his concern. “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, his voice low, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid of my answer.
I shake my head, my voice steady. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing as his eyes narrow with skepticism. “Be honest,” he urges, his gaze penetrating, searching for the truth.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer this time. I can see he still isn’t entirely convinced, so I soften my tone, offering reassurance. “I’ll be fine.” I offer a
reassuring smile, but I’m still somewhat coming to grips with the night.
With how easily I’ve forgiven him.
I think it’s because I’m just now realizing what he’s given me. As both a reader and a writer, I tend to lean more toward the darker side of suspense and romance. The kinks some readers and writers are into can make even me blush.
But even the darkest of books have an audience that enjoys them. And even though as readers, we wouldn’t want to live out some of the fantasies we read about, it doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy reading those things.
I did not enjoy what Saint did tonight. But I do appreciate that he was trying to give me the experience he thought I was asking for in a safe way.
Aside from being tied up, I was never in any actual danger. He just thought I wanted to feel like I was.
What’s strange is that it feels as if he did those things in a book and not in my real life. We forgive our characters for much worse than we’d forgive our friends and lovers for, and I feel like I’m lending him the forgiveness I’d lend a character rather than an actual person in my life.
This entire night has been surreal, but I feel his remorse and I can accept it and I can take what happened and I can use it. I will definitely be using it.
Knowing how Reya is feeling in that moment has given me a whole new level of respect for her fear. For the actual pain she endures.
The red marks are still fresh on my wrists, and I can feel the slight sting when I flex my hands, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. They’ll fade in a day or two, nothing that would leave lasting harm. I’ve endured worse in the heat of passion, moments where pleasure and pain blurred together. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was following the script, playing the role we
both fell into.
The game I started.
At least . . . I think I started it.
A part of me isn’t even sure anymore, but I know I want him here. I know I don’t want him to stop. Every emotion I just went through is one I want to type into my laptop this very moment. I want to describe Reya’s fear, the strength in the stranger’s hands, the way Reya’s voice betrayed her when she needed it the most.
I almost want to thank Saint for giving me that.
Almost.
“I think you might be crazy,” I whisper.
Saint laughs quietly. “Yeah, well. I’m still here, so which one of us is crazier?” He brushes a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Petra, are you sure you don’t need some alone time? I would understand.”
“No. Don’t go.” I want more of him, more of whatever this is between us. More time with him. More attention. More gentleness, specifically.
But mostly, I want more experiences with him that will make me love writing again. I would never want to repeat what happened earlier. It was far too intense and raw, but the experience itself, it’s feeding a curiosity inside me. I can’t help but think of other ways he could pull emotions out of me in a way that will help me believe I lived through them.
His gaze is more heated now, simmering with something unspoken, but I can tell he’s holding back. There’s a restraint in the way he looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to make the next move, leaving the choice in my hands. It’s a shift from before—earlier he had the control, guiding the scene, but now . . . now he’s leaving it up to me. I can sense his hesitation, his awareness of how fragile this moment is.
I lift my hand slowly, and my fingers brush lightly over his lips. His breath catches slightly at the touch, and the feel of his mouth under my thumb ignites a warmth that spreads from my chest down to my core. I trace the outline of his bottom lip, savoring the softness, the subtle parting of his mouth under my touch. His eyes darken with desire, but still, he waits.
I lean forward, closing the space between us, and press my lips to his.
His kiss is slow, gentle, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure how far I want to take this. But I can feel the tension beneath his restraint, the way his body leans into mine ever so slightly, as if begging for permission to go further.
I decide to give it to him.
I slip my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, and he responds instantly. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, but still gentle, still careful, as if he’s making sure I know I’m the one in control this time. The kiss grows more intense, more heated, and I can feel the fire between us
building with every passing second.
There’s no longer any hesitation.
His hands slide down my back, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I feel my body arch toward him, craving his touch. The restraint from earlier has vanished, replaced by something raw and real. This isn’t about playing
roles anymore. This is just us, Saint and Petra, two people caught in the heat of a moment that neither of us wants to escape.
He’s standing between my legs now, and his towel leaves very little barrier between us, so I feel him harden almost instantly.
I wrap my legs around him, and that’s when he takes my control of the kiss away from me. He cradles my head with his left hand and deepens the kiss, then pulls me to the edge of the counter with his right hand so that I’m mostly being held up by him.
I let my head fall back as he drags his mouth down my throat. I close my eyes, dizzy beneath his touch. I feel his fingers at the knot I’ve tied on
the robe.
“Can I?” he whispers.
I lift my head and look at him, then nod quietly.
His eyes fall to my chest, and then he unties my robe. I lift up a little as he removes it and pulls it away. He tosses it over his shoulder, sucking in a small gasp of air as he looks at me, then runs his fingers down the center of my chest.
I can’t help but stare at his wedding ring as his hand moves to cup my breast.
Are my breasts prettier than his wife’s?
Am I prettier than his wife?
He takes my nipple in his mouth, and I fist my hand into his hair, pressing his lips against my breast even harder. He sucks and bites without a trace of the gentleness he’s been displaying since I got out of the shower.
The hungry side of him has taken over, and his mouth is suddenly all over me—moving between both breasts, then to my neck, then back to my mouth. I can barely keep up with the parts of me he’s focused so intently on before he moves on to another part of me.
He lifts me off the counter and holds me against him, one hand wrapped around my lower back and the other cupping my ass while his tongue is deep in my mouth.
I’m glad he’s carrying me right now, because I think I’m too dizzy to walk.
He drops me on the sofa, pulls his towel away, and then lowers himself on top of me. “Do I need a condom?” he asks.
I’m on the pill, and I know I’m good not to use one, but how do I reassure myself that he is? I barely know him, and my decision-making
skills have not been great tonight. I’m naked beneath a man who made me cry from fear earlier.
My hesitation in answering him gives him what he’s looking for. “My wallet. Be right back.” He crosses the dark room, and I hear him rifling through the wallet. I even hear him tear the wrapper as he’s making his way back to me.
And then he’s back on top of me, condom in place, his mouth pressed against mine again. He returned so fast, I didn’t even get a good enough look at him to determine whether this is going to hurt.
I’ve never had that before—the kind of sex women have in the books I write. Every man I’ve ever been with has been of average size, so I’ve always had to imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man who is so big, it actually hurts.
As soon as I wrap my legs around him, it’s clear that I won’t have to imagine it any longer. I can feel the intimidating length of him rubbing against my thigh.
When he repositions himself so that he can start to slide into me, I wince.
His mouth is feathering mine, back and forth. “Just say stop if you want me to stop, okay?” The gentleness in his voice coupled with the reassuring look in his eyes makes me putty beneath him.
He begins to push the rest of himself into me, and I close my eyes, savoring every second of this. I pay attention to the pain, to the pleasure, to the noises we’re both making. I imagine how I’m going to describe this
when I write it all down.
Painful, yet satiating.
Sensual, yet animalistic.
We find our rhythm almost instantly, and I stop thinking about how I’ll describe this. All I can think about is how good this feels. Those thoughts are occasionally mixed with worry about the current state of my morals, but that worry is easy to pack away when Saint kisses me.
I could get used to this.
So used to this.
That thought terrifies me as my moans echo through the house.
