He was so mad when I dared to follow him, when I stepped even a toe intohisreal life. And now he’s here, a silent, dark sentinel, watchingmein mine? The sheer hypocrisy of it burns, a searing flame in my chest. I want to march down that street, to confront him, to demand, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” My jaw clenches, the joyful symphony of the party suddenly feeling discordant and tainted.
I try to ignore it, but it’s hard to pretend I’m not being watched in the very element I keep so hidden from the rest of the world. My eyes keep flicking, almost involuntarily, to the end of the street, to that dark, menacing shape lurking beneath the oak trees. It’s like a predator observing its prey.
I refuse to feel like prey in my own home.
When everyone’s attention is diverted by a particularly boisterous game between the men, I seize my chance. I steal away from the group but make it look like I’m heading inside to use the restroom. I slip around to the side of the house and then pass through Esther’sbackyard. When I’m sure I’ve gone far enough for no one to see me, I merge onto the sidewalk. My steps are purposeful, aimed straight for his car. Each stride is deliberate, like marching into the lion’s den. I keep glancing back to make sure no one is watching me, but everyone is paying attention to everything else.
I go around the back of the car so that I don’t risk being seen. I can hear the click of the locks on the doors, which further solidifies it’s Saint.
I open the passenger door and can see his arm, his hand gripping the steering wheel, his thigh. The air inside the car is cool, a stark contrast to the muggy summer afternoon. I slide into the passenger seat. My hands grip my thighs, my knuckles white. My voice, when it comes, is a strained whisper that barely hides the roar beneath.
“I thought homes were off limits,” I demand, my gaze fixed on his profile. He’s looking straight ahead, at my house, at my family, a silent, very unwelcome observer in my domestic world. His stillness is infuriating.
He turns his head slowly, his eyes finally meeting mine. There’s no apology, no explanation, just that familiar, unsettling depth. “It’s different now.” His voice is low and calm.
“How is itdifferent?” I challenge, my arms crossing over my chest, a defensive barrier.
He shifts, turning more fully toward me, his elbow resting on the center console. “You’re in danger.”
My brow furrows. “Danger? What are you talking about?” A cold trickle of unease joins the anger.
“Reya, you’ve received death threats. I can’t let you go unprotected.”
Good fucking God.
I stare at him, a snort of disbelief escaping me, sharp and involuntary. “I’m at myhome. This is mydaughter’s birthday. I don’t have time for this shit,Saint.”
“Reya,” he says.
“Stop calling me that! This is ridiculous. You’ve found a flimsy reason to intrude on my personal space, and I’m angry.”
He holds my gaze, unwavering, his expression unreadable. And then he finally breaks character, leaning his head back against the headrest. He allows an expression to finally reach his eyes, and maybe I’m just hoping, but he actually looks a little remorseful.
But then the asshole has the audacity to grin. “Petra,” he says, finally using my actual name. “Relax.” He tries to slip a reassuring hand up to my neck, but I push it away.
“Do not tell me to relax when you’re literally sitting outside my home.”
He seems genuinely surprised by my reaction. He angles toward me a bit more. “Are you worried I’m here to confront your husband?”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re capable of. It’s fucking terrifying.”
He immediately drops the whole act, no more grin, no more cockiness. He transforms back into the Saint I had on the boat, his eyes reassuring, his posture comforting. “Petra,” he repeats. His voice is quiet, almost a plea, the barest hint of vulnerability in its tone. “I would never do that.”
“You need to leave,” I say, my voice firm, despite the tremor in my hands that I desperately try to hide.
“Wait. Just wait a second,” he says, grabbing my hand.
“No. I can’t function with you here. I need you to leave. This is not okay.”
He doesn’t argue further. He just watches me for another long, silent moment, those dark eyes dissecting me. Then, a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Nothing else needs to be said between us. I grab the door handle, my fingers fumbling slightly, and step out, the sounds of the party rushing back in, louder, more vibrant, almost overwhelming after the contained silence of the car.
I walk back toward the house, every muscle in my back tense. I finally hear him start the car and pull away.
I walk straight into the house and to the bathroom. I lock the door and do everything I can not to have a complete meltdown.
This is myhome.
