CHAPTER NINE
“‘The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still’?” Nora practically yells the line back at me. “Petra, this is so good! I am so invested in this story, and you sent me one chapter! When will you have more?”
“I have over ten chapters,” I say. “Forty-six thousand words.”
“Are you serious? You’ve written forty-six thousand words?”
“Yep.”
“That’s like half a book!”
“I know. I’m so relieved, but I’m scared to get too cocky. I might jinx it.”
“Are you happy with what you’ve written so far?” she asks. “You’re not going to toss it and start over and confuse me by changing the entire plotline?”
She knows me so well. “So far it’s a keeper,” I say. “I’ll send the rest to you if you want to read more of what I have.”
I’m curious what she’ll say if she can find the time to read it. I don’t know if the reason I like what I’ve written so far is because of the whole muse aspect I’ve still kept hidden from Nora, or if I just like Saint so much that I’m confusing my trash writing with my exhilarating feelings for him.
It would be good to have an outsider’s opinion.
“Absolutely you better send it, right now, while I’m on the phone.”
God, I love her. I don’t know if she’s actually excited to read this, but she knows how much confidence her excitement lends. I open the file and attach it to an email while she waits, and then I hit send.
“It’s rough,” I say.
“I know, I know, it sucks, it’s trash, you have to flesh it out more,” she says. “I do this for a living, too, you know.” I hear her download the file after it comes through. “Still untitled?” she asks, looking at the first page.
I’m still not sure what the book will be called, so right now I just have the literal word Untitled as the working title. “Not yet. I have a list of contenders, though.”
“Okay, starting it now. Love you, bye.” Nora ends the call, but her rush to start reading everything I’ve written so far perks me up. I was about to crawl into bed when she called, but now I feel like crawling into bed with my laptop.
I don’t know why, but whenever I know someone is reading one of my works in progress, I feel like I have to start from the beginning and read it like I’m them, not knowing where the book is heading, looking at it with a fresh pair of eyes. I especially love doing this when I know Nora is reading, because she sends me live updates over text as she reads.
This is probably my favorite part of writing. The peer support.
My least favorite part is the dread I feel knowing she may very well come back and tell me the manuscript isn’t working. That I still don’t know how to write a love triangle, even though I’m risking so much by playing a part in one.
I plop down onto my bed with my laptop and open it as I adjust the pillows. I’ve had my phone on Do Not Disturb since being on my date earlier, so I’m surprised at the number of messages that begin popping up on my laptop as soon as it wakes.
It’s Mari. U didn’t text by 11.
Petra, it’s 11:03.
It’s 11:06 are u dead?
11:09 now I’m getting worried
Ok I’m coming to u
Nvmd. Just saw you drive by.
Guess ur alive.
Unless he’s wearing your skin and driving your car
I can’t believe I forgot to message her. I called Nora as soon as I walked in the door and forgot all about Mari. I immediately respond and let her know I’m safe in bed, and then I put my computer on Do Not Disturb so I can hopefully get some work done while still running off the creative fumes of my conversation with Nora.
I fell asleep in bed with my laptop open. It happens a lot. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with the familiar weight on my chest, satisfied to know that I worked until I couldn’t write another word.
I can feel its cold edge pressing into my ribs when I attempt to roll over, so I push it away, hearing it slide across the blanket to the other side of the bed. The screen light flickers for a second before I reach over and
close it, and then the room goes dark.
Too dark.
I open my eyes wider, suddenly nervous to move. I don’t know why. I don’t think anything woke me, and I don’t hear any unfamiliar noises.
That’s the problem, though. It almost feels more than quiet—it feels like there’s a huge absence of noise. I don’t hear the ceiling fan. I don’t feel the air circulating. I don’t hear the hum of the air conditioner.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to convince myself to fall back asleep.
Just go back to sleep.
But something is off. I can’t place it at first, but there’s an eerie stillness in the air. The house is so quiet, like the world outside has gone mute. Too dark. My heart begins to race. Too silent. An instinctual alarm is going off in my chest. Too alone. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the drowsiness, but the unease only intensifies.
I open my eyes fully, and my gaze is immediately drawn to the bedroom door. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the feeling that I’m not alone,
that something is waiting.
And then I see it.
A shadow.
It’s filling the doorway—dark and unmoving, blending into the blackness of the room but still distinguishable in its shape. The silhouette of a person. I can’t make out any details, but it’s there, and it’s watching me. A
cold wave of terror crashes over me, weighing down on my chest like a vise
grip.
This can’t be real.
For a moment, I’m paralyzed, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
My body freezes in fear, my muscles locked tight as I stare at the figure in the doorway. I want to scream, but it’s like one of those nightmares where you try to call for help, but no sound comes out.
My throat feels tight, my voice trapped somewhere deep inside me.
I reach for my phone instinctively, my fingers fumbling on the bedspread, desperate to find it in the darkness. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I can’t think. I can’t focus on anything except the shadow, which is now moving.
The figure lunges forward, and in that split second, my body finally reacts. A jagged scream rips from my throat as I scramble to the other side of the bed. My legs tangle in the sheets as I try to pull away, to escape.
But I’m not quick enough.
A hand—large, strong—wraps around my ankle with a brutal grip, yanking me backward with such force that I lose all sense of balance. My hands claw at the blankets, trying to find something to hold on to, but it’s useless. I slide across the bed, my body dragged toward the figure. My phone slips from my fingers, tumbling off the mattress with a dull thud as it hits the floor.
I’m crying now as my chest heaves with panic. The hand around my ankle tightens, cold and unrelenting, pulling me closer to the edge of the bed. I kick out with my other leg, desperate to break free, but it’s no use.
I’m trapped, helpless.
In the back of my mind, a thought flashes: Is this Saint?
But no—this feels worse. This feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
My body is racked with adrenaline like I’ve never felt before. “Stop!”
I scream. I plead with whoever this is.
Could it be the owner of the cabin?
No. Louie wouldn’t be this strong. It can’t be him.
Terror surges through me, sharp and electric, every nerve on high alert.
My heart pounds so violently in my chest, I’m sure it’s about to burst. My breaths are coming out in quick, ragged gasps, each one more desperate than the last.
“Saint, if this is you, please stop. Please.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. I try to recall everything I learned in self- defense class—the techniques, the moves, the strategies to fight back—but there’s no time to think. No time to react. Everything I learned feels distant,
like a memory I can’t fully access.
Move, Petra. Do something!
Before I can even try, I’m being yanked off the bed with such force that I can barely process what’s happening. My feet flail wildly, searching for something—anything—to anchor myself to, but there’s nothing. The ground seems to slip out from under me as I’m dragged across the floor, the rough fabric of the carpet burning against my skin. I let out a scream full of terror, but it’s cut short as a hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me in an
instant.
Please be Saint. Please be Saint.
The thought shoots through my mind like a lightning bolt, and I hate myself for it. Why am I hoping it’s Saint? Why? Even if he’s taken our little game too far and he’s here, breaking into my house in the dead of night just to scare me, his actions are still horrifying. They’re still inexcusable.
But deep down, I know why I’m hoping it’s him. Because if it’s Saint, then at least I know who it is. I know what this is about. I can reason with him, maybe. I can remind him of the boundaries, the unspoken rules we’ve created in this twisted thing between us.
But if it’s not him . . . the alternative is much, much worse.
I kick my feet against the floor, struggling to get any kind of leverage.
My body twists, fighting to find an escape, but he’s moving too fast. Too strong. Every time I think I’m gaining some ground, his grip tightens, and I’m dragged farther, helpless against the force pulling me across the room.
My fingers claw at the carpet, searching for anything to grab onto, but it’s useless. I can’t stop him.
“Please,” I cry, my words useless. Saint wouldn’t be this rough with me. Even if he were here playing out a Cam-and-Reya scene, he’d be mindful of my fear. Mindful of his grip.
Whoever this is isn’t thinking about me and my comfort at all.
The house is so dark. Darker than normal. The kind of darkness that presses in on you, suffocating and all-encompassing. I can barely see two feet in front of me, but as I’m dragged through the hallway and into the kitchen, I notice something that sends a chill down my spine. The faint
glow of the appliances is gone. All the little lights normally blinking from the microwave, the stove, the fridge, are out. Completely dead.
The power’s been cut.
A fresh wave of panic surges through me. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. Whoever this is, they didn’t just show up uninvited.
They planned this. They made sure the house was in complete darkness, that no one could see or hear what’s happening. They’ve covered their tracks. I’m alone.
I start to scream again, but a hand comes down on my mouth. Hard.
Stifling.
All the shades are drawn, blocking any light from the outside. There’s no one to see, no one to help. My stomach twists painfully as I fight against the arm wrapped tightly around me. He’s got both of my arms pinned now with just one of his, locking me in place, making it impossible to move. I’m trapped. Completely at his mercy.
Suddenly, the hand over my mouth is removed, and for a split second, I gasp for air, choking on my fear. This is my chance. I have to figure out what’s happening. Who this is. I need to know.
“Saint?” My voice comes out in a trembling whisper, barely audible through the sobs that are threatening to break free. The sound of my own desperation sends a shock of humiliation through me, but I can’t stop it.
“Saint, please.” I can’t believe I’m saying his name, begging for him, but I
have to know.
Is it him?
I try to turn my head to look at the figure behind me, to catch a glimpse of his face, but the moment I attempt to move, he forces my head
forward with a brutal shove.
Too strong. Too rough.
His hand clamps down on my jaw, holding me in place, and my body vibrates uncontrollably under his grip. He’s so close now, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin, the oppressive weight of him pressing against me. He brings his mouth to my ear, and for a moment, I stop breathing. I freeze, waiting for whatever comes next, hoping—praying— that I’ll hear something familiar in his voice. But the silence is worse than anything he could say.
But then a chilling, deep voice cuts through it. “Don’t. Fucking.
Move.”
I’m slammed down hard into a chair, the impact jolting through my
entire body.
That didn’t sound like Saint.
My breath leaves me in a sharp, panicked gasp, and the shock of it makes everything feel more surreal. Is this someone else entirely? Am I actually in real danger?
Tears spill down my cheeks, sliding into my mouth. I can taste the salt as I sob.
The uncertainty wraps itself around my throat, making it even harder to breathe. Was that Saint? Since I can’t recognize his voice, the fear bubbling inside me only grows stronger, more suffocating. My heart pounds so hard I’m afraid it might stop.
I try to jump up out of the chair—somehow willing myself to escape— but I’m not fast enough. Before I can even get my feet under me, hands clamp on my wrists with bruising force, shoving me back down. The grip is so tight it feels like my bones are being crushed. I wince in pain, but my mouth is quickly covered with a strip of tape. The adhesive sticks instantly, pressing tightly against my lips, sealing off any chance of screaming for help. I can feel the tape pulling at my skin, trapping me in silence.
Please let this be Saint.
I don’t know why I’m still hoping it’s him, because at this point it doesn’t matter. Even if it’s Saint, I’m in pain and I’m scared and I’m crying.
But the thought of it being someone else—someone with worse intentions —makes my blood run cold.
My arms are yanked behind me with such force that a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my shoulder, up my arm, and straight to my spine. I cry out, but the sound barely escapes my throat before it’s swallowed by the tape. The muffled noise is all I can manage as my hands are tightly bound together behind the chair. The rough texture of the rope digs into my skin, burning with every movement.
I wince, gritting my teeth behind the tape, trying to ignore the searing pain radiating from my wrists. The rope bites into my skin so hard it feels like it’s cutting through, like I’ll start bleeding at any moment. How did this happen? How did I get here? The panic is overwhelming, but I try to focus —try to think of something, anything, that will help me get out of this.
I manage to get in a few desperate kicks, my legs flailing out in a last- ditch effort to break free. My feet connect with something solid—a body,
maybe his legs—but it doesn’t slow him down. He grunts, and for a split second, I feel a surge of triumph, but it’s short-lived. His hands clamp down on my ankles with brutal force, pinning them to the floor long enough to secure them with more rope. I fight, I thrash, but it’s no use. My feet are tied to the legs of the chair so tightly that I can’t even wiggle my toes without feeling the strain.
Tears spill from my eyes, unbidden and uncontrollable. The more time that passes, the less control I have over my body and mind. My vision blurs as the tears mix with panic, making everything seem distorted, more chaotic.
This is real. This is actually happening.
There’s no way Saint would let this game go this far, I tell myself, trying to cling to some shred of hope. He wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t let me be in this much pain.
For the first time since I woke up just minutes ago, the cold realization sinks in: I might not make it out of this. For the first time, I truly feel like my life is in danger.
My body goes still. The adrenaline that had me thrashing and fighting just moments ago begins to drain away, leaving me numb and paralyzed by fear. I try to stop the tears, knowing they won’t help me now.
I need to calm down. I have to think.
My breath comes in shaky bursts as I force myself to focus.
Think, Petra. Think.
I can’t move my hands, can’t even flex my fingers without the rope digging into my wrists. My legs are equally trapped, every slight movement sending sharp pain up my calves. I’m completely bound to the chair, every
inch of me immobilized.
What do I do?
I hear noises behind me—things crashing to the floor. The sound is sudden, violent. I jump at each crash, my muscles tensing involuntarily. My ears strain to pick up every sound, trying to figure out what he’s doing. I can hear drawers being yanked open, slamming shut, one after another.
Panic grips me again, but this time it’s icy cold, settling deep in my bones.
Is he looking for something? A knife?
The thought chills me to the core, my mind racing with horrible possibilities. I can barely breathe as the minutes stretch on, filled with the chaotic noises of his search.
What is he planning?
The longer the noise continues, the more my heart sinks. I’m stuck, powerless, with no way to defend myself or even see what’s happening behind me. Every crash feels like a countdown, like the seconds ticking away before he makes his next move. I pray he’s not finding whatever he’s looking for. I pray he’s not preparing for something far worse.
Just when I think I can’t bear the tension any longer, a new sound cuts
through the air. The front door opens.
It doesn’t close.
I can hear footsteps fading away. The door is still open, though. I can feel the cold, the outside breeze creeping into the house. I don’t know if he’s coming back. I listen quietly. The cool air brushes against the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Each gust feels like an intrusion, a reminder that I’m still vulnerable, still at the mercy of whatever comes next.
The silence in the house is suffocating. I hear nothing but the faint whistle of wind filtering through the door and the quiet sound of my own ragged breaths, mixed with muffled sobs. My chest feels tight, and each breath is a struggle as I try to keep the hysteria from bubbling over. I sit there, tied to the chair, my heart pounding in my ears, and for a moment, it feels like time has stopped completely.
I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as I can, trying to block out the world around me. Please let him be gone. The words are like a chant in my head, a desperate plea. I haven’t set foot inside a church in years, but in this moment, I pray harder than I ever have before. God, please. I’ll go back. I’ll make up for all the services I’ve missed. Just let him be gone. Please, don’t let him come back.
The prayers come in waves, fast and urgent, tumbling over each other in my mind. I pray that somehow, by some miracle, he’s already left. That he’s walked out that door and disappeared into the night, never to return. I pray that I’ll find a way to free myself, to wiggle out of these ropes and run.
I need to survive this. I don’t know how long I’ve been praying. Minutes feel like hours, and the terror makes every second stretch into an eternity.
My mind is racing, but my body is still frozen in fear.
Eventually, I start to move. It’s a small, tentative movement—just a slight wiggle of my wrists to see if there’s any give in my bonds. The sharp
burn of the rope against my skin is immediate, but I push through it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to slip free.
My hands are sore, my wrists raw from the tightness of the knots, but I keep trying. I have to try.
I spend what feels like an entire hour rubbing my wrists against each other, loosening the rope little by little. Eventually, I can feel it starting to give. I can also feel the painful scratches formed on my skin as I work my right hand out of the rope. As soon as it’s free, I start to sob. I untie the rope from my other hand, and then I pull the tape from my mouth with a loud gasp.
I work on my legs next. It doesn’t take as long now that both my hands are free. As soon as I can stand, I try, but I collapse to my hands and knees.
There’s still too much fear and shock running through me, I can’t even walk to the bedroom. I crawl, crying, until I reach my phone.
Just as I feel a sliver of hope—just as my fingers begin to dial the
number 9—I hear it.
Footsteps.
Oh, God.
My heart, which had just begun to slow down, leaps into my throat, and the panic rushes back, stronger than ever. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I freeze in place, holding my phone against my chest as the
footsteps grow louder.
He’s coming back.
I feel like my entire body is vibrating with fear. I can’t do this. I can’t face him again.
I start to crawl my way toward the closet, holding my breath so that he won’t hear me in the bedroom. But then, through the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, I hear a familiar voice coming from outside.
“Petra?”
I freeze in place, and for a moment, I’m not sure if I heard right. But then I hear it again, clearer this time.
“Petra!”
Saint.
The sound of his voice cuts through the fear, and my heart feels as if it plummets to the floor. There’s concern laced in the way he says my name, an urgency that fits the situation but still doesn’t match the terror I’m feeling. The front door swings open farther, and I hear it slam against the
wall, and before I can even process what’s happening, Saint is suddenly here, across the room, kneeling right beside me.
His presence overwhelms me. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or even more afraid.
He looks at me, and his eyes widen when he sees the state I’m in. I’m shaking, my eyes are wild, there are tears streaming down my face, and I am absolutely terrified. His face hardens, but there’s something else in his
expression now.
Anger?
No. Concern.
Without a word, he rushes back into the kitchen, and I can hear him pulling open drawers in a frantic search for something. I listen to him, my mind racing, trying to piece together what’s happening. He walks into my bedroom, but it’s still too dark to see. I catch a glimpse of the glint from the knife. He’s back by my side in an instant, kneeling down as he begins to cut through the rope still tied to my left ankle.
The rope falls away, and the sudden release of tension makes me gasp, my arms and legs still throbbing as blood rushes back to my limbs. But I’m not relieved. Not yet.
Seeing Saint sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing over me, and the tears I had been trying so hard to hold back come pouring out uncontrollably. They aren’t just tears of fear anymore—they’re tears of everything.
Tears of confusion, of frustration, of relief, and of dread all at once.
Saint reaches up and gently pushes my hair out of my face, but instead of feeling free, I feel more trapped than ever. I can’t speak. I can’t find the words to explain the mess of emotions swirling inside me. All I can do is cry, sobbing harder now than I did when I was being dragged through the house.
Saint places the knife on the floor beside him, and his hands hover near me, as if he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure how. “Petra,” he says softly, his voice calmer now, but I can’t respond. I don’t even know if I want to.
My mind is spinning. I have so many questions, but none of them make sense right now. All I know is that he’s here, that he came back, and that somehow, I’m still not safe.
There’s no reason he would show up here at this time of night. None at all.
“Please. Tell me what happened,” he says.
He did this. I know he did. There’s no other explanation.
No one else would know where I am. No one else would know how to get in, how to cut the power. Only someone like a cop would know these things.
My body trembles as I try to push the thought away, but it clings to me, suffocating in its certainty.
Saint pulls me to my feet, but I fall limply against him, too weak to do anything but shake. Too upset to beat him against the chest, which I so feel like doing. The burning sensation in my wrists from the tightness of the rope is overwhelming. I instinctively rub my wrists, but the pain is too much, so I stop. Saint wraps his arms around me and says my name with
such worry.
“Petra. It’s okay. I’m here.”
I’m reeling from the realization that he is the one who caused this. He is the one who put me through this nightmare.
“Stop pretending!” I scream. I push against him, my hands slapping him in the chest. The sting is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the emotional pain flooding through me. He tries to grab my wrists, to stop me from hitting him, so I take a wide step back, and then I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to hold back the sobs that are bubbling up uncontrollably. My chest feels tight, my breathing shallow. The tears come harder now, and I can’t stop them. I don’t even try.
“Petra, it’s me. Saint,” he says, his voice gentle, soothing, as if he can fix everything with those two words. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word feels hollow. Empty.
There’s nothing safe about this. About him.
I feel the rope still touching my ankle, so I immediately start kicking at it, desperate to get it away from me, to rid myself of any reminder of what just happened. My feet shake as I kick, my body still trembling uncontrollably. The sensation of freedom should bring relief, but it doesn’t.
I feel trapped in my own skin, trapped in this moment that I can’t escape.
Saint reaches out for me again, his arms coming up to wrap me in an embrace, but the sight of him reaching for me makes something snap inside
me.
I don’t want him to touch me.
Without thinking, I shove him away—hard. And I do it again. And again. He starts to take steps backward, but I move with him, pushing him over and over toward the door. It’s an instinctive reaction, fueled by anger, confusion, and sheer terror. I push him with all the strength I can muster, wanting nothing more than to get him away from me. My hands shake as I do it, my breath coming out in ragged gasps, but I don’t care. I can’t believe he thought I’d be okay with any of this. How could he think this was what I wanted?
I don’t give him time to react. I don’t even look at him once I have him out of my bedroom. I just turn and slam my bedroom door with him on the other side of it, and I run toward my bathroom, my feet moving faster than my mind can keep up with.
I slam the bathroom door shut as soon as I’m inside, my fingers fumbling for the light switch on the wall. I flip it on, desperate for the comfort of light, but nothing happens. The room stays pitch black.
The realization that he actually turned off power to the house sends another wave of panic crashing through me. My fingers tremble as I reach for the shower faucet and turn the handle to as hot as it will go. The sound of the water splashing against the tiles is the only thing I can focus on now, the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. I strip off my clothes with shaky hands and step into the shower, my breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts as the hot water hits my skin.
The water is close to scalding, but I don’t care. I let it beat down on me, hoping—praying—that it will somehow wash away the fear, the confusion, the overwhelming sense of betrayal that’s consuming me from the inside out. I close my eyes and lean against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, but nothing is helping. I’m gasping for air, each breath more frantic than the last.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
It’s too dark.
