Page 35 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
Back at the cottage, the adrenaline hasn’t faded, it’s just morphed into something darker, hotter, and harder to ignore. I shut the door behind us and turn the lock without thinking, my body moving on instinct while my mind’s still clawing through everything that just happened.
The panic’s gone. The focus, too. What’s left is raw, aching need—part desperation, part relief. To hold her. To reassure myself with the press of her body against mine that she’s really here, really safe. That I didn’t get there too late.
She’s standing by the bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes still glassy with the aftermath. Not fear exactly. But something close. I cross the room slowly, reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my knuckles brush her jaw.
“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t found you in time,” I murmur. “And then I can’t think at all.”
She swallows hard, lifts her chin. “Then don’t think. Just touch me.”
I kiss her—softly at first. But it builds. God, does it build. Her hands twist in my shirt, tugging me closer until there’s no space between us, no logic, no fear. Just heat. And relief. And want.
When she breaks the kiss, we’re both breathless. Her voice is hoarse. “I need you to prove I’m here. That I’m real.”
“I will,” I promise. “Again and again.” To claim every inch and make her believe this isn’t just lust—it’s forever.
Her hands tremble when they find the hem of my shirt, but her gaze doesn’t waver. I don’t rush her. Every second is permission. We undress each other slowly, reverently. She pushes my shirt off my shoulders and runs her fingers down my chest like she’s memorizing me all over again.
“I need you,” she whispers.
“You have me.”
I lift her into my arms and carry her to the bed. She wraps around me like she’s always belonged there.
This time is slower. Deeper. We move in rhythm, in sync, every moan and sigh a vow spoken in skin.
“I love you,” she gasps against my mouth.
“I love you more.”
She laughs, breathless. “Not a contest.”
“Then we both win.”
After, we lie tangled in the sheets. Her head rests on my chest, fingers tracing idle circles over my ribs.
Then she sits up, breath still uneven, and reaches for her laptop—her fingers trembling, but not from fear. It's as if something in her needs to put it down now, before the memory fades or the adrenaline slips away. She curls her legs beneath her, back resting against the headboard, and flips open the screen.
The glow illuminates her face, casting warm light over the deepening bruises and the glint of quiet determination in her eyes. She blinks at the screen, startled by lines she doesn’t even remember typing—scenes from the night before, eerily aligned with what just happened. A locked door. A heroine tricked into isolation. A last-minute rescue by a man she thought had pushed her away for good.
Her fingers start moving. Fast. Like she’s pulling threads together that have been tangled too long. With every line, she’s not just finishing a story, she’s taking back power. Reclaiming narrative. This is how she copes, how she processes. The smell of duct tape and mildew still lingers in her memory, but it only makes her more focused.
She glances at me, eyes glassy but fierce. “I just realized… the last twist I gave my heroine—she made it out by remembering something the villain let slip. Something they didn’t mean to say.”
I nod. "Then use it."
“I already am.” She smiles faintly. "And she gets the guy, too."
Fingers flying. Story pouring out of her like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Seriously?”
“I have a chapter to finish. Don’t worry, you’re in it. Hero gets the girl and everything.”
I watch her fingers fly over the keyboard. Her face is calm, peaceful, radiant.
She presses send.
“I just submitted the manuscript.” Her voice shakes a little, but there’s pride in it. Strength. As if hitting ‘send’ gave her something back.
