Chapter 19 Saint #2
“I’m not trying to scare you.” Elena interrupts.
“Like I said, I came to warn you, to explain what is going to happen because I wish someone had done the same for me.” Elena’s eyes finally meet mine, and for the first time since she arrived, I see real emotion in them.
Raw and painful. “I went into my branding ceremony blind. I thought it would be like getting a tattoo. Something uncomfortable but manageable. I was wrong. It’s nothing like that, Saint.
It’s medieval. It’s cruel. And once it’s done, there’s no going back.
You’ll carry that mark on your skin for the rest of your life. ”
I wish I could close my ears. That this was all a bad dream, but it’s not.
It’s my life now. My stomach clenches tight, and bile rises in my throat.
Never in my mind did I think this would be a good experience, but hearing the details from someone who experienced it firsthand and survived? I can’t possibly see a path forward.
“I can’t refuse,” I ask quietly. “Can I?”
“No.” Elena’s answer is immediate. “Refusal is the same as betrayal. You say no, and Roman will find a way to kill you. It might not be that day, but it’ll happen.
He’ll make it look like an accident or a disappearance.
And you aren’t the only one at risk of dying.
Calder will most likely be next for failing to control his wife. ”
I press my palms against the counter, needing something solid beneath my hands to stop my knees from buckling. “There’s no choice then. I’ll have to accept it or face death.”
“Yes.” She picks up her mug again and takes a slow sip.
“Just remember. The pain is temporary. The fear is temporary. The mark is what’s forever, and that’s all that Roman cares about.
He wants a permanent reminder that you now belong to this family.
That you’re his property as much as you are Calder’s. ”
My throat feels too tight. “Is there anything that makes it easier?”
“Calder will probably offer you something. Pain medication before the ceremony. It helps, but not as much as you’d hope.
” Elena stands and moves around the counter to stand beside me.
Up close, I can see the fine lines around her eyes and the way her hands shake slightly.
“The truth is, nothing makes it easy. You just survive it. And then you carry it with you forever.”
We stand in silence, two trapped women in a kitchen that smells of coffee and quiet desperation.
“There’s something else,” Elena says, and her voice drops even lower. “Something Roman will probably mention tomorrow night but won’t explain until later.”
“What?”
She turns to face me fully, and the look in her eyes makes ice flood my veins. “The wedding night ceremony.”
“The... what?”
“It’s a Bishop tradition. After the branding heals enough that you can move without screaming, they hold another ceremony.
This one is...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“It’s meant to consummate the marriage in front of witnesses.
To prove that the union is legitimate. That the woman has accepted her place in the family. ”
The room tilts. “You’re saying I have to, with Calder, while people watch?”
Elena’s face is carefully blank. “It’s humiliating. It’s invasive. And there’s no way around it.”
I think I might be sick.
“This is insane,” I whisper. “This whole family is insane.”
“Yes.” Elena’s agreement is matter-of-fact. “But you knew that already. The question is whether you’re strong enough to survive it.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“No. You don’t.” She reaches out and gently touches my arm. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier. That eventually you stop feeling like property. That the brand stops burning when you look at it in the mirror.”
“But it doesn’t.”
“But it doesn’t.” Her hand drops away. “I’ve been Roman Bishop’s wife for thirty years. And every single day, I feel the weight of that iron on my skin. Every single day, I remember that I’m not a person in this family. I’m a possession.”
The hopelessness in her voice breaks something in me.
“How are you still here?” I ask. “Don’t you want to leave?”
“Leave? Where would I go?” Elena laughs, bitter and sharp.
“I have four sons who need me, even if they pretend they don’t.
I have no money that isn’t Roman’s. No skills that would support me in the real world.
And if I tried to run...” The look in her eyes is nothing short of fear.
“Roman would find me. And what he’d do to me would make the branding look gentle. ”
She moves back toward the living room, and I follow, legs feeling unsteady.
At the door, Elena pauses with her hand on the knob. “You seem strong,” she says, looking back at me. “Stronger than I was at your age. Maybe that will be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To survive this family without losing yourself completely.” She opens the door and steps onto the porch. “I lost myself thirty years ago. But you... maybe you can hold on to who you are. Maybe Calder will let you.”
“He forced me into this marriage,” I point out, the words tasting bitter. “I don’t think he cares about who I am.”
Something flickers across Elena’s face. Almost pity, but not quite.
“I think you’re wrong about that. Calder chose you.
He betrayed his family, the only thing he’s ever known, for you.
I think he cares more about who you are than you want to believe.
” She starts down the porch steps, then pauses as if she’s forgetting something. “One more thing, Saint.”
“Yes?”
“During the branding, when the pain is at its worst, find something to focus on. A memory. A prayer. Something that belongs to you and only you. Hold on to it like a lifeline.” Her eyes meet mine one last time.
“Because once that iron touches your skin, Roman will own a piece of you forever. What he won’t ever be able to touch unless you give it to him is your mind and soul. Keep those for you.”
I don’t know what to say, and she doesn’t care to wait for my response. She continues down the steps and walks across the yard toward her car, leaving me standing in the doorway, my coffee growing cold and her warnings echoing in my head.
I watch her drive away, dust kicking up behind her tires. That’s when I finally break. I go back inside, close the door, and lock it behind me. My knees buckle, and I lean against the wall before I sink to the floor with my back against the wood.
Tomorrow night, they’re going to brand me.
Going to mark me as Bishop property the same way they mark cattle.
And after that, after I’ve healed enough to move, they’ll force me into some twisted wedding ceremony.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and finally let myself break.
Not crying, I’m too numb for tears. Just sitting there on the floor while the Montana sun slants through the windows and reality crashes over me in waves.
Elena Bishop has survived thirty years of this.
Can I do the same?
Part of me is afraid that tomorrow will break something inside me that can’t ever be fixed. I can either wallow in pity or face the darkness head-on. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. Bad things happen to good people all the time. I can’t change what is going to happen. I can only change my reaction.
Eventually, I pull myself together. My legs are shaky when I stand, and it feels like they might give out on me at any moment. Do something, Saint. Anything. Remind yourself who you are. Find something that you have control over.
That’s when I see the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen.
It’s probably stocked by whoever furnished this house and filled with expensive stuff that the Bishops think nothing of keeping around. I cross the room and open it. There are rows upon rows of liquor and bourbon.
Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Gin.
I reach for the whiskey, the good kind, amber liquid in a heavy crystal bottle. I pour myself a glass and let the burn warm me from the inside out.
One glass becomes two.
Two becomes three.
Somewhere around the fourth glass, I decide that if I’m going to be branded tomorrow night, if I’m going to carry Roman Bishop’s mark on my hip for the rest of my life, then I might as well make one meal that’s completely mine.
One thing in this house that I chose. That I created.
I start pulling ingredients from the kitchen cabinets.
I’ll need to figure out who stocked the house so I can thank them.
Everything is here. Flour, eggs, butter, vegetables, chicken in the freezer.
My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from years of helping my father with church dinners, from the baking I used to do when life was simple, and the worst thing I had to worry about was whether my cookies would turn out right.
The whiskey makes everything feel distant. Soft around the edges. Less real.
I’m rolling out dough for biscuits when I realize I’m crying. Not sobbing. Just tears sliding down my cheeks while my hands keep working, keep kneading, keep creating something out of nothing.
Tomorrow night, Roman will destroy something in me.
But tonight, I’m going to make biscuits.
Tonight, I’m going to cook a meal in this kitchen that’s supposed to be mine.
Tonight, I’m going to drink enough whiskey to stop feeling the weight of what’s coming.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to survive what tomorrow brings.
Elena’s words echo in my head: “Find something to focus on. A memory. A prayer. Something that belongs to you and only you.”
I pour another glass of whiskey and keep cooking. Letting the anger simmer under the surface just like the pots on the stove.