A lie pressed against his mouth.
I know the kiss won’t last long. Shephard is nothing if not predictable in moments like these. He’ll take it to the bedroom before things get too heated, before the passion can truly ignite, as he always does.
He’s a bedroom kind of lover, methodical, careful, almost ... ritualistic. It’s the way he’s always been, always contained, always planned. There’s something safe about it, something comforting in its routine, its predictability, but tonight, it feels stifling, like I’m trapped in a script I’ve followed for too long, a play where I no longer remember my lines.
I don’t know that we’ve ever had spontaneous sex on a couch before. The thought strikes me as odd, considering how long we’ve been together. Our intimacy has always followed a pattern, a rhythm we both understand, a comfortable dance. There’s never been much room for surprises, for wild abandon, for spontaneity.
And yet, with Saint, everything was raw, unpredictable, charged with a kind of reckless energy I’d never felt before. The contrast between the two men, between the two experiences, is startling, a jarring shift in frequency. I can’t help but compare them in my mind, even though I know it’s wrong, know it’s unfair to Shephard, to our history, to everything we’ve built. But the comparison happens anyway.
“Let’s go to bed,” Shephard says, predictably, his voice soft and full of affection, a familiar invitation. He kisses my forehead before pulling away, leaving just enough space between us to remind me that this is how it’s always been, this careful, controlled distance. I nod, even though my mind is elsewhere, still trapped in the sticky web of lies I’ve spun.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ll be right there. I have some emails I need to send first.” The lie slips out with scary ease.
“Take your time. I need a shower anyway.” Shephard’s voice is a warm, even murmur laced with a familiar, uncomplicated affection that feels like a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders. He stands up from the couch, stretching his arms over his head with a contented sigh, a soft, almost purring sound, as if nothing is wrong in the world, as if the unsettling encounter with Saint earlier was merely a quirky interlude.
As if everything is exactly as it should be, perfectly aligned in his predictable, comforting universe. His hand briefly brushes mine as he passes, a faint warmth, before he heads down the hall toward the bedroom. His footsteps are steady, even, his presence radiating an oblivious sense of comfort. But I can’t take comfort in him tonight. Not now. Not after what I’ve done.
My skin crawls with the memory of it, the scent ofhimstill clinging to me like a phantom perfume.
The bedroom door closes softly, a quiet, almost imperceptible click that echoes like a gunshot in the sudden, cavernous silence of the living room. I wait, holding my breath, straining my ears, listening for the distinct sound of the bathroom door closing behind him. I hear the faintest creak, then the unmistakable whoosh and spray of the shower turning on, a steady, rhythmic rush of water that signals I have time, a precious, stolen window. Time to do what I shouldn’t. Time to fall deeper into the trap I’ve set for myself, a trap of my own design.
I bypass the laptop entirely, its purpose forgotten, a flimsy lie. My bare feet glide across the cool hardwood as I make my way to the back door, drawn by an invisible, irresistible pull. I unlatch the lock, the click surprisingly loud in the quiet house. I step outside and pull the screen door shut behind me.
The cool night air hits my skin like a slap in the face, sharp and biting, chilling me to the bone, but at the same time waking me up to the raw, treacherous reality of what I’m about to do.
My hands are shaking, a nervous tremor that runs through my entire body, as I pull out my phone, my fingers fumbling clumsily with the screen, almost dropping the device onto the wooden porch. Without hesitation, almost by instinct, I immediately dial Saint’s number, my mind racing, a frantic carousel of emotions: raw anger, piercing guilt, and a flicker of excitement.
He answers on the third ring, a deliberate pause that makes my nerves hum with anticipation. “I figured I’d hear from you before you went to bed.” His voice, when it comes through the line, is maddeningly casual, an easy, almost lazy drawl, as if he’s just woken up from a pleasant nap.
“What the fuck was that?” I snap. The words come out filled with the crushing weight of everything I’m feeling.
“You’re married,” he snaps back, his voice losing its playfulness instantly, turning cold and hard, like tempered steel. There’s no warmth left in his tone now, just an edginess that slices through me, an immediate counterattack. His words are heavy with accusation, laced with judgment, as ifhehas any right to condemn me, as if he’s not the primary instigator of this entire, devastating mess, the architect of my current torment.
“So are you,” I bite back, my hand tightening around the phone so hard my knuckles ache, pressing the device painfully against my ear. My voice is low, a guttural growl, barely controlled, a raw, strained whisper, as if I’m holding on to the last shred of patience I have, the final, fraying thread of my sanity.
“I never lied about it,” he says, his words cutting through me like a knife, cold and precise. His tone is flat, emotionless, devoid of any inflection, like he’s stating a factual truth that cannot be argued with, an undeniable, inconvenient reality.
And the worst part is, he’s right. He never did lie about being married. He laid it all out, clear and uncompromising. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t.Iwas the one who hid, who pretended, who built a fragile facade around my life. The realization is a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, a self-inflicted wound.
I glance instinctively toward the living room window, my heart racing as I check to make sure Shephard is still in the bathroom, still safely hidden behind the monotonous sound of the running water. I take a deep, shaky breath, steadying myself before I speak, finding a sliver of composure amid the chaos. “I technically didn’t lie about it either,” I say, my voice quieter now, more controlled, laced with a calculated defiance. “You never asked.”
There’s a long, excruciating pause on the other end of the call, the silence stretching out between us like a vast, dark chasm. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost a whisper. “Are you going to fuck him tonight?”
The question hits me like a physical punch to the gut, a brutal blow that knocks the air clean out of my lungs, leaving me breathless and reeling, gasping for air. My throat tightens, suddenly constricted, but I feel the chill of arousal build in my stomach. “He’s my goddamn husband, Saint. What do you think?”
How dare he ask that. How dare he make meanswer.
“So that’s a no?” The playfulness is back in his voice, instantly, a light, maddening teasing lilt returning, as if he’s pushing me, testing me, seeing how far he can go, how much he can unravel me.
He isn’t mad at all. Not really. This is part of the game to him, a meticulously crafted performance. He’s enjoying this, enjoying my torment, my confusion.
And then, with a jolt of ice-cold clarity, a chilling realization that pierces through the fog of my anger, I realize what he’s doing. Why he showed up here today to meet Shephard. Why he played up the stern, unyielding officer. He’s embodying the very things I wanted Cam to be.Controlling, possessive, jealous. He’s playing the role I created for him in Reya’s story, the role of Cam, the obsessive, dangerous lover.
And in this moment, consumed by a confusing, terrifying mixture of pure terror and perverse fascination, I hate him for it. And I love him for it.
I hate him for seeing through me, for knowing exactly what buttons to push, for pulling me so relentlessly into the fiction, making it horrifyingly real. He’s not just playing a role; he’s weaponizing my own desires against me.
Showing up at my house today was just him pushing the limits of my experience. He wanted me to know what it felt like to be scared my affair was about to be found out, but he had no desire for Shephard toactuallyfind out.
