Page 30 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
I break. My climax rips through me, white-hot and blinding as my inner muscles tighten around him; each wave of pleasure sending shudders through my body. He follows with a groan, burying himself in me with a final, devastating thrust as he floods me with his warmth.
We collapse together, breath mingling, skin slick with sweat. He doesn’t let me go. Not right away. One arm curls possessively around me, the other tangled in my hair.
"That was..." I start, breathless.
"Yeah."
"I didn’t expect this. Us."
He brushes a kiss to my temple. "Neither did I. But I’m done fighting it."
I smile, curling into him. "Good. Because I love you."
His breath catches. Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "I love you, too. God help me."
I blink, stunned that he said it. That he meant it. His thumb brushes under my eye like he’s memorizing the curve of me. “God help us both,” I whisper back.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle stiff from spending what times I wasn't fucking Sebastian the better part of the night curled over my laptop, pounding out a chapter that left me raw.I roll out of bed with a groan, take a shower and wrap myself in Sebastian's discarded shirt from the night before, inhaling his scent and sighing.
Sitting down at my laptop I start to review where I was. My heroine had just uncovered a betrayal buried beneath decades of silence, and as the words poured out, so did something unspoken inside me—fear, fury, resolve. It left my chest tight and my fingers aching. But more than that, it felt... true.
The ghost of a chapter still hovers in my mind—my heroine, Harper, was sneaking through a cottage, eerily similar to this one, trying to uncover a sabotage plot buried under old stone and older lies.
I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, I’m not so sure. The line between fiction and foresight has blurred. Maybe it was never fiction at all. Maybe Harper’s story is my subconscious screaming warnings I refused to hear.
There’s something about the way the fog hangs, the silence pressing against the windows, the way the storyline on my screen uncannily mirrors what’s happening around me—it sends a ripple through me. I shuffle across the cottage in my bare feet and pour myself a mug of coffee that seems to contain more dread than caffeine. Sitting at my desk, I shuffle through my notes.
Timeline of strange events? Check.
Break-in that’s too clean to be amateur? Check.
Missing architectural plans with no signs of digital tampering? Double Check.
A cast of characters with more motive than memory of their whereabouts? Triple check.
All of it reads like a checklist straight from Harper’s chapter. Sabotage, missing plans, too-clean break-ins. Either I’ve lost touch with reality—or I’ve been brushing up against the truth all along. It’s about power, legacy, and cover-ups.
I stare at my storyboard where I’ve pinned plot lines and character arcs. The red threads connecting fictional lies to real-world whispers send a chill down my spine.
The names are different. The setting fictional. But the bones? They feel too damn real.
Maybe I didn’t just make this up. Maybe I saw more than I realized. Maybe writing it down was my brain’s way of telling me to look closer.
A buzz vibrates the desk.
Sebastian: Meet me at the carriage house. Now. No one else.
My stomach knots. No emoji. No sarcasm. No grumpy tone. Just a flat, mechanical message that doesn’t sound like him at all. I frown. Why not come down and say whatever it is in person? Maybe he wants to show me something. I text back:
Kate: Something wrong?
No response.
I glance toward the mansion. The fog makes it hard to see anything past the orchard.
I hesitate, then dial Ryan.
“Kate?” he answers on the second ring, voice alert.
