Saint nods, his expression never faltering, a perfect, unwavering mask. “New county ordinance. All vehicles traveling in and out of the area now require a visitor tag. Standard procedure, just implemented this month.”
Shephard lets out a short, surprised laugh at the absurdity of needing a tag just to be here, on a public lake that isn’t even an official park. His chuckle is light and dismissive, as if he’s trying to brush off the strange encounter with casual humor.
I can’t even fake a smile right now. My mouth feels dry, like cotton, my hands trembling slightly as I clasp them together in front of me, trying to steady myself, trying to anchor myself in this rapidly destabilizing reality.
I know Saint is lying. Every fiber of my being screams it. There’s no requirement for a visitor tag in this area, and there never has been. We’ve been coming to this lake for years, and not once have we ever had to deal with something like this. He’s playing a dangerous game.
It’s a risky lie, an incredibly audacious one, that sends my mind spinning with a sickening mixture of questions and dread. What is he thinking? Does he really expect Shephard to believe this blatant fabrication? And more importantly, what’s his plan? What’s the next move in this terrifying chess game?
Saint has no idea how much Shephard does or doesn’t know about the local laws, or how much attention he pays to minor ordinances. He’s gambling on the hope that Shephard will take him at his word, thathe’ll be too distracted or too trusting, too polite, to question it. And for a split second, a terrifying, hopeful second, I think it might work. Shephard doesn’t seem suspicious—just confused, a mild annoyance creasing his forehead.
“I didn’t realize,” Shephard says, his tone still casual, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow as he turns around to look at me, seeking confirmation. His expression is full of mild confusion, but there’s no alarm, no suspicion, no accusation. “Didyouknow this, Pet?”
I can feel Saint’s eyes on me, drilling into me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. I feel pinned to the doorframe by Shephard’s nickname for me being spoken in front of Saint.
Pet.
I swallow hard, as if every word I utter is going to betray me, to unravel the precarious lie. Saint is staring at me, hard, his gaze unwavering, and I know this is a test. He’s watching to see how I’ll handle this, whether I’ll crumble under the pressure or play along, whether I’m a good enough actress.
This moment feels pivotal, like walking on a knife edge. One wrong word, one hesitant glance, could unravel everything I hold dear.
I nod, a stiff, barely perceptible movement, forcing my face into an expression of mild nonchalance, of detached understanding, even though inside, I’m falling apart, pieces of me splintering. I clear my throat, trying to push down the hot, painful lump forming there, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Yeah,” I say, my voice barely steady, a thin thread of sound. “It’s a new law. I ... forgot to tell you.” The lie feels heavy on my tongue, sticking there, thick and repugnant, but I push it out, praying it sounds convincing enough, praying for his belief, for my salvation.
Shephard seems to accept my explanation without a second thought. He even offers a small, rueful laugh. He tosses a hand toward me, his smile easy and relaxed, as if this is all just one big joke to him, a minor inconvenience, something to be amused by. “She forgot to tellme,” Shephard says with a light laugh, the sound bubbling up as he looks back at Saint, as though he’s trying to break the awkwardness, to turn this strange, unsettling moment into something normal, something lighthearted. He’s hoping to get a smile out of Saint, a shared moment of masculine understanding.
But he gets nothing.
Saint’s expression remains unchanged, a stoic mask. His gaze is fixed on me, unwavering, intense, dark and piercing. He’s not here to laugh, not here for polite social graces. He’s here to make a point. The air between us feels thick, suffocating, charged with unspoken menace, and I can’t tell if he’s acting, a master of deception, or if this is something darker.
Saint is still staring at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he’s waiting for me to crack. Every second that passes feels like an eternity, the tension stretching and pulling until I feel like I might snap under the pressure.
“I’m only here for the night,” Shephard says, oblivious to the swirling undercurrents, the deadly game playing out right in front of him. He speaks calmly, still trying to be amiable, completely unaware of the storm brewing right in front of him. “My car will be gone by eight tomorrow morning. Can we let it slide this time?”
He’s just trying to be polite, to resolve a minor inconvenience, to wrap this bizarre conversation up and go back to the comfortable, predictable life we’ve built together, completely unaware that it’s all hanging by a single fraying thread.
Saint finally looks back at Shephard, his expression still hard, a chiseled mask of authority, but something in his posture shifts, a subtle easing of tension around his shoulders. He gives Shephard a tight nod, a curt, professional acknowledgment, his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping under his skin. “I’ll be back in the morning to make sure the car’s gone,” Saint says, his voice flat, but his words are laced with something that feels like far more than just a promise. It’s almost as if it’s a warning, asubtle threat wrapped in the chilling formality of his professional tone. The way he says it sends an icy chill slithering down my spine, burrowing into my bones, and I know, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that he means every single word.
This isn’t just about Shephard’s car—it’s about control. It’s about lettingmeknow that he’s not done, that this isn’t over, that I am still firmly within his grasp. Or maybe he just wants me to know he’s angry that I failed to mention I have a husband. The thought is a bitter, unwelcome taste in my mouth.
Shephard looks at me, raising an eyebrow, his expression a complicated mix of bemusement and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, or what he’s just witnessed. He doesn’t say it, not out loud, but I can see it in his eyes:This guy is crazy. This is beyond weird.And for a terrifying, fleeting moment, I find myself agreeing with him.He might be right. This might be pure, unadulterated madness.But then I pull myself back, a frantic mental tug.
No, this is Saint.
This is Cam.
I can’t tell.
The character and the muse are bleeding into each other like watercolors in a storm. I don’t know if Saint is just playing the jealous, possessive role of Cam right now, or if he’s crossed some unseen, dangerous boundary, if the character has consumed the man. Either way, the cold, sticky fear bubbling in my chest won’t go away, clinging to my ribs.
As if the moment couldn’t get any worse, I see a mop of orange curls on top of a silky dress making its way up the driveway.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper, mostly under my breath, but Shephard glances at me.
“Who is she?”
“Hi!” she sings, waving a wild hand. “Just going for a stroll and thought I heard children!”
“The neighbor. Owner of the house.”
