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.
