Chapter 11 Saint
Saint
I wake to the smell of coffee.
For one disoriented moment, I think I’m home.
That the past few days have been nothing but a terrible nightmare conjured by too many true crime podcasts and an overactive imagination.
As I shift, the ache in my muscles and soreness in my legs remind me where I am. I feel like I was hit by a dump truck.
Then the memories of last night filter in with a vengeance.
Escaping the cabin, disappearing into the blizzard.
It was so cold, every breath I took felt like knives in my lungs.
Calder found me, carried me back, and stripped off my wet clothes, holding me against his body until the deadly chill released me.
I can still feel the heat of his skin on mine.
The unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against my hip.
He saved my life. Again. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Not only did I not die but I also humiliated myself. I’m still burrowing in the blankets that smell just like him.
It’s hard to ignore my attraction to him when he’s surrounding me. My clothes from last night are draped over a chair near the fire; the fabric looks dry.
A blessing since I don’t have any clothes of my own.
Looking down the length of my body, I notice I’m wearing a T-shirt. His T-shirt. My stomach clenches at the thought. He dressed me while I was unconscious.
Again.
I know I should be grateful. That I should say thank you. But I don’t want to, and that makes me feel… unlike myself.
My body aches in ways I’ve never experienced.
Not just from the cold or the running but also from something deeper.
My feet throb with each heartbeat, probably frostbite, though I’m too scared to look.
My lungs burn with every breath, raw from inhaling frozen air.
Even my bones seem to ache, like the cold penetrated so deep it hasn’t fully released its hold.
But I’m alive.
I didn’t want to be, but I am.
Calder moves into my line of sight, and I quickly close my eyes, pretending to still be asleep. I’m not ready to face him yet. Not ready to see the satisfaction in his eyes at having caught me, at having saved me, at having proven that escape is impossible.
Through my lashes, I watch him move around the small cabin with quiet efficiency.
He’s fully dressed now in jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots.
There’s a white bandage on his temple where I hit him with the pan, stark against his dark hair.
I did that. Pride fills my chest, but it extinguishes just as fast. That’s not me.
I shouldn’t be happy about hurting someone, even Calder.
He pours coffee into a mug. The sound of liquid hitting ceramic is unnaturally loud in the quiet cabin. Then he just stands there, staring out the window at the forest beyond.
I study his profile in the morning light.
The strong line of his jaw, shadowed with stubble.
The way his shoulders carry tension even when he’s standing still.
The bandage that marks where I wounded him, however briefly.
He looks tired. Worn down. Not the cold, controlled enforcer I’ve seen before, but something more human. More vulnerable.
The thought unsettles me. It’s easier to hate a monster than a man.
“I know you’re awake,” he says without turning around.
I freeze, debating whether to keep pretending. What’s the point when he already knows? It’s infuriating how he always seems to know.
I open my eyes fully and push myself into a sitting position, wincing at the protest from every muscle.
The blankets fall away, and I clutch them back, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing beneath his shirt.
I can feel my bare legs sliding together, aching and stinging from the scrapes and bruises I got during my desperate flight through the forest.
“How are your feet?” he asks, but still isn’t looking at me.
I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to engage in this pretense of concern, but if I know one thing to be true, it’s that Calder has the ability to make me speak even if I don’t want to.
“They’re fine,” I lie.
“Don’t do that.” He turns to face me this time, fixing me with those winter-blue eyes.
“Don’t pretend you’re okay when you’re not.
I need to know if there’s frostbite. Telling me they’re fine when they aren’t could make things worse.
So I’ll ask again, and this time, I want an honest answer. How are your feet?”
The command in his voice grates on my nerves, but I force myself to wiggle my toes experimentally. Pain shoots through them, sharp and immediate, but they move. That’s good, right? That means no permanent damage?
“They hurt,” I admit quietly. “But I can wiggle my toes.”
He nods, satisfied with my answer. “I put antibiotic ointment on the worst of your cuts. You’ll need to stay off them as much as possible today.”
“How convenient,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Harder to run when you can’t walk.”
Guilt shines in his eyes. “About that. Are you done trying to kill yourself?” he asks bluntly. “Or do I need to chain you back up?”
It’s a threat, but I know very well he will follow through with it, and the reminder of my loss of dignity and control is not something I want to endure again.
“I’m done,” I whisper, hating myself for the surrender in those words.
“Good.” He moves to the kitchen area, pulling items from a bag I hadn’t noticed before. “In about an hour, we’re going to see your father and get his blessing for our marriage.”
I shake my head, panic bubbling to the surface. “I don’t want to do this. There has to be another way.”
Calder sets down the coffee mug with deliberate care, and it feels like the calm before the storm. Slowly, he turns to face me, and the light cuts across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, and cold determination in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Saint. That’s not my intent here, but there are no other options. By the end of the day, you will be my wife, because the alternative isn’t something either of us wants.”
“Please.” I hate the way my voice breaks, hate the tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “Please don’t make me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything. There is no choice, no option.
” Calder reaches out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and brushes a strand of hair from my face.
The gentleness of the gesture contradicts everything else about him.
“This is happening, Saint. The only question is whether you’re going to make it easy or hard for me. Easy or hard for your father.”
I pull away from him, wrapping the blanket tighter around myself like it might protect me from all of this. “I don’t even know what to say. How to explain myself.”
“Keep it simple. Tell him we’ve been seeing each other in secret.
That you’ve had feelings for me since I took you to the hospital when you broke your wrist. It wasn’t long after you turned eighteen that we started meeting up when he was away at his retreats.
” Calder straightens, moving back to give me space.
“Tell him you love me and want to marry me even though you know he won’t approve. ”
The story is so specific and detailed. How many hours did he spend crafting this lie while I slept? How many scenarios did he run through in his mind?
“I’m sure it sounds believable to you, but I know my father. He’ll never believe this,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re not entirely true.
My father knows I had a crush on Calder, though he never pushed me on it.
Never asked questions. He’s also noticed that I’ve been quieter and more withdrawn.
There’s a chance if Calder plays this right, and I’m convincing enough, my father might actually believe this charade. And that makes me sick to my stomach.
“He’ll believe what we make him believe,” Calder says, echoing my thoughts. “Especially when I remind him of the debt he owes my family. The overdue payments. How much it would hurt to lose everything he’s built.”
“Smooth. Hit him with the story, and if that doesn’t work, threaten him.” I shake my head in disbelief. This nightmare just continues to grow.
“Anything to make sure this goes through.” Calder oozes confidence. He picks up a small bag and offers it to me. “Here, take it. I brought you clothes. Real ones, not just my shirts.”
I take the bag like it’s a snake that might strike. I peek inside to make sure it’s clothes, then pour the contents onto the floor. I finger through the clothes—a few T-shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, a sweater that looks comfy, underwear, and socks. All in my size.
The thought of him selecting these items, thinking about my body enough to know what would fit, should disgust me, yet that’s not what I feel at all.
“Where did you get these?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just put them on.” He moves toward the door, grabbing his coat from the hook. “I need to clear out some of the snow so we can get out. When I come back, you better be dressed and ready to go. The bathroom is through there if you want to freshen up.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what he plans to do if I’m not ready, but I bite my tongue and watch him walk outside. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a cell door locking.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the clothes, at the cabin that’s become my prison cell, at the life I no longer recognize as my own.
Every choice I’ve made since opening my door to Martin Everett has led me here, to this moment, to this impossible situation, to this man who holds all the power.
A little voice in my head tells me to make a run for it. To try to escape again, but I banish it away at the reminder of the cold and the way my body shut down. Of how close I came to dying in the snow.