Shephard chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. “They’re heavy sleepers,” he murmurs, his voice laced with contentment, before pulling away from me to grab a towel from the nightstand. I watch as he wipes it between my legs, careful and considerate. It’s a small gesture, but one I’ve always appreciated about him—that he takes care of me, even in these intimate, vulnerable moments. It’s one of the things that makes him a good husband, one of the things that used to make me feel so safe, so cherished with him.
But in the times I’ve been with Saint, there was no cleaning. There was no neatness. We were sticky and messy, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to like it, a primal, animalistic acceptance. And surprisingly, terrifyingly, I liked it too.
Saint is everything Shephard isn’t, and that’s both good and bad. It’s a chasm, a thrilling divide.
Shephard adjusts the blanket to cover us, his body warm and familiar beside mine. He rolls over onto his side, his back to me, the ultimate gesture of postcoital comfort and trust. He murmurs, “Good night.”
I roll away from him, pulling the covers tighter, hugging my pillow tightly as I stare into the darkness, the faint moonlight painting shadows on the wall. “Good night,” I whisper, but the word feels hollow, like it’s meant for someone else.
Someone who’s no longer standing outside my window.
I need to mentally buckle up, because the ride Saint is taking me on is getting way too unstable.
Chapter Sixteen
I buckle the girls into their car seats and then brush my fingers through their soft hair. Chloe wiggles a little, her usual restless energy bubbling over, a kinetic force of nature, as she fidgets impatiently with the strap. Andi, in contrast, sits perfectly still, gazing up at me with wide, innocent eyes, like twin pools of clear water.
I can feel their anticipation of resuming their familiar routines. I’m anticipating returning to my own routine I’ve set here. But there’s also the familiar tug at my heart that always accompanies our partings, no matter how often I do it, no matter how much I tell myself I need the solitude to write. I lean down and kiss them both on the forehead, my lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual, inhaling the sweet, faint scent of sleep and childhood.
“I’ll be home in a week for your birthday,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a cheerfulness I don’t feel, even though the words catch in my throat like a dry and uncomfortable lump.
One week feels like an eternity right now, like I’ll have so many more moments with Saint between now and my trip home for the party next weekend. And then I’ll come back for another week. A final week with Saint, with my laptop, with my thoughts. I really do think I’ll walk away from this cabin for good with an entire book.
Maybe it will have all been worth it.
“How long is a week?” Andi asks, her voice small and curious, a tiny, piping sound, her eyes sparkling with that endless thirst for knowledge, her innate wonder. She’s still trying to grasp the concept of time.
Before I can answer, Chloe jumps in with the unshakable confidence only a five-year-old can possess. “It’s only thirty days,” she says matter-of-factly, her tone full of certainty, as if she’s the undisputed authority on all things time related. She crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture of absolute conviction, proud of her declaration, and Andi nods, as if her big sister’s word is absolute law, etched in stone.
I can’t help but smile at Chloe’s firm assertion, even though it’s entirely, hilariously wrong. “A week is only seven days,” I correct gently, knowing this will probably turn into a back-and-forth debate that neither of us will win. I tuck a stray strand of Chloe’s hair behind her ear.
Chloe shakes her head, her brow furrowing in frustration, a determined frown. “No, it’s thirty,” she insists, her voice rising just a little, imbued with a fierce conviction, determined to make her point, to defend her teacher’s wisdom. “Sometimes thirty-one. My teacher said it.”
I suppress a weary laugh, not wanting to start a battle I have no interest in fighting, especially not now. I know I could patiently explain the difference between days and weeks and months, the nuances of the calendar, but my patience is threadbare. I just need them to leave, need them to be safely away from here, before Saint pulls another horrifying stunt and shows up while they’re still here. The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
“Okay. Thirty days,” I say, capitulating, just wanting the conversation to end, to usher them out. “Love you.” I lean in one last time and press a quick kiss to each cheek.
I close their car door with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the deceptive quiet of the morning air, and I take a deep, shaky breath,knowing that the next week will feel far longer for me than it will for them, an eternity stretching out ahead.
As I step back from the car, Shephard walks toward me, his arms already outstretched for a hug, his face a picture of relief and contentment. He pulls me into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping me, familiar and solid, and I lean into him for just a moment, trying to let the sheer physicality of his presence ground me, pull me back from the edge. He kisses my cheek, the gesture tender and reassuring, a practiced kindness, but it does little to soothe the storm swirling inside me, the relentless turmoil.
“I’m glad we came,” he says, his voice soft but filled with an easy affection that, in other circumstances, would be deeply comforting. To him, this visit was just a nice break, a chance to reconnect as a family, a chance for me to “get back on track,” for him to remind me that I’m not alone out here, struggling in the shadow of my career’s recent decline. “Maybe last night was the inspiration you needed to finally kick-start things again,” he adds with a smile, his eyes twinkling with a hopeful optimism that feels completely out of place.
He has no idea. He doesn’t know how sickeningly right he is, but for all the wrong reasons. Last night did bring me inspiration—just not the kind he’s imagining, not the kind that would ever see the light of day in a book for general consumption. The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt rising in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I swallow it down, forcing it deep inside where it can’t hurt me right now, where it can’t betray me.
“I’m glad you came too.” I force a quick, almost perfunctory peck on his lips, trying to keep the facade in place, to keep the flimsy walls from crumbling down around me. I step back as he climbs into the car, the girls already waving eagerly from the back seat, their small hands pressed against the glass. I plaster on a wide, practiced smile and wave back. I keep waving until the car disappears down the winding graveldriveway, until I can no longer see their small faces pressed against the windows, until the last glint of chrome vanishes beyond the trees.
The moment the car is out of sight, my smile drops, evaporating from my face like smoke. The relief I feel is instant. A sharp, exhilarating rush.
When I’m certain they’re gone and can no longer hear the rumble of the engine, I turn and head back into the house. I’m moving on autopilot, my steps quick and purposeful, almost frantic, my mind racing with one singular, overwhelming thought:I need to call Saint.It’s not a question. It’s a primal, desperate need.
He’s all I’ve been able to think about since last night, his audacious presence lingering in my mind like a dark, intoxicating shadow I can’t shake, clinging to my thoughts, weaving through every fleeting moment of false calm. I need to hear his voice again, to ground myself in whatever this terrifying, exhilarating thing is between us, this dance that feels utterly out of my control.
I don’t get far. The moment I open the door, I’m left frozen in place.
Saint is somehow standing right in front of me, having materialized as if from thin air, his tall, imposing frame blocking my path completely, filling the doorway. His eyes, dark and piercing, are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
A million questions flood my mind all at once, a chaotic, unbidden torrent.How did he get inside? I locked the doors last night, I was so careful! How long has he been here? Has he been watching me? Watching Shephard?
