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 atowel 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 thanhe 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 versionof 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 feeloverdressed, 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.
