Chapter 20 Calder
Calder
All I can think about when I get home Sunday night is food and falling face-first into my pillow. That is until I enter the house.
The scent of roasted chicken and herbs catches me first, warm and domestic, the kind of smell that belongs in someone else’s life.
Closing the front door, I creep into the kitchen and breathe a sigh of relief when I find Saint at the counter. Relief turns into worry when I spot the glass in her hand, and the vacant way she stares into the void. What the hell happened after I left?
She’s changed her clothing since I saw her earlier this afternoon.
Now she’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that make her look more like a domesticated housewife.
I’m not sure why, but that causes an uncomfortable ache in my chest. I don’t want her to change, to lose what makes her Saint.
Strands of honey-blond have escaped the bun she has in her hair and hang loosely, framing her face in messy waves.
Beautiful.
A bottle of Maker’s Mark sits on the counter beside her. Shit.
How long has she been sitting here drinking? I notice her small bare feet are pressed against the rungs of the stool, and I smile at the sight of them.
Saint doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even acknowledge my presence when I enter the kitchen. If I didn’t already have a gut feeling that something is wrong, this would be a glaring sign.
“Saint?” I say her name softly.
“Your mother stopped by earlier.” Her tone is tight, strained at the edges. “Gave me a nice little heads-up to what’s going to happen next.”
Fuck. Dread coils in my gut. I should’ve known my mother would come to visit.
“What did she tell you?”
Saint lifts her head, but only so she can take a drink, not to look at me. The whiskey slips past her lips slowly, and I’m mesmerized by the motion. “Everything.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Well, not everything, but enough.”
“Okay, explain.”
“Explain? Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who needs to explain. You are.”
I sigh and skim my hands over my head. “I was going to tell you, explain the process before we got there.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe that.”
“What do you want me to say?” I glance around the kitchen and pause. Mostly just for something to change the topic.
She cooked. There’s chicken on the stove, golden and cooked perfectly. Biscuits cooling on a rack. Green beans in a pan. All of it untouched, growing colder by the second while she drinks herself numb at the counter.
“You didn’t have to cook.”
“Probably not, but I had to do something.” Her grip on the glass tightens.
“I needed something to prove that I still have some type of control over the things that happen in my life. Even if that control is whether the chicken’s dry or moist.” The way her voice cracks, with hollow exhaustion.
It’s a sound I’ve never heard before, and I fucking hate it.
“My mother shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” she croaks, finally looking at me.
Her eyes are rimmed red, but there aren’t any tears.
Just this terrible emptiness reflecting at me, and somehow that’s worse than seeing her cry.
“How dare you stand here with that sad look in your eyes and act like… like you give a crap about how I feel? I have no say in anything, not even what happens to my body apparently.”
I lean against the counter across from her, keeping distance between us even though what I really want to do is wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight to my chest and have her cry it out.
“That’s not true. Every decision that I’ve made has been for you. I was going to tell you, and that’s the fucking truth. I can’t make you believe me, but it’s true.”
If only she could understand that I have as little control over what happens as she does.
“Really? When? The night of? While they’re heating the iron?
Right before they press it into my skin?
Or maybe right before you fuck me in front of your family?
” She shakes her head in disbelief. “All of this is so messed up, and I’m scared.
Scared of what’s going to happen next, if I’m going to make it through the next Bishop event. ”
“You’ll make it. You’re stronger than you think.”
With a scoff, she drains her glass and pours another with trembling hands.
“Fucking Christ. Give me a break. I’m doing my best here.” I’m close to pleading, and I hate it.
“Your best?” She shifts to face me, and I get a closer look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glassy, with dilated pupils. “Are you insinuating that I’m not grateful? Or are you saying this is part of being a Bishop wife, so I should get used to it?”
“Neither.”
“Then explain!” Her voice rises, sharp and cutting. “Because the only thing I know how to do is be afraid, and I don’t want to be afraid.”
What the fuck do I say to that? How do I make this okay for her? I can’t. There is no saving Saint from what has to happen. There is only preparing her and helping her afterward.
“If it were up to me, if I had a choice, Saint, none of this would happen. I don’t want to see you fucking hurt.”
“Stop. Just fucking stop! If I’d wanted to be with you,” Saint continues, words tumbling out faster now, “if I’d chosen this, then maybe I could handle it.
” Lifting her hand she slams her glass down hard enough to make the whiskey inside slosh over the rim.
“But that’s just the thing, I didn’t choose any of this. ”
“Saint—”
“Shut up, Calder.” Her eyes flash, dangerous and bright. “I’m done listening to the lies.” As much as I want to protect Saint, protecting her doesn’t keep her alive. It doesn’t prepare her for what’s going to happen. It makes her soft. It makes it unlikely that she’ll survive, and I can’t lose her.
Snapping, I snarl, “I think you’re forgetting something here.
We aren’t in your world anymore, Saint. We’re in mine.
I’m doing everything I can to shield you from the worst of it, but I can’t stop all of it.
I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust me.
I know you feel like everything is out of your control.
I fucking understand all of it, and it’s killing me to see you so upset, to know you’re hurting, but I can’t… ”
I shake my head and swallow down a wave of bile threatening to rise up when I think of her being branded.
She doesn’t give a fucking inch, though. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be married to you. I never asked for any of this!”
I push off the counter, closing the distance between us in two steps.
Saint’s spine straightens, but she doesn’t back away. Doesn’t flinch. Just meets my eyes with that defiant tilt to her chin that makes me want to kiss her and shake her at the same time.
“When the time comes, I’ll explain it.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Right now, you need to prepare yourself for the branding ceremony. One thing at a fucking time.”
She reaches for the whiskey bottle, and I watch as she pours, as she drinks, as the alcohol does what I can’t—loosens the terror gripping her throat.
After a moment, she interrupts the silence. “What’s the point in waiting?”
“Waiting for what?” I lean in close to catch the scent of her beneath the alcohol, try to gain some kind of control over my emotions, over the hard-on already pressing into my fly.
She’s sexy when she’s angry.
“To have sex.” She’s still close enough that I can smell the whiskey on her breath. “You’ve been talking about how much you want me, but you haven’t done anything. Is it because of this stupid ceremony? Is that the reason you haven’t fucked me?”
Nothing turns me on more than witnessing such a sweet mouth say such filthy words. I don’t think now is a good time to explain because I doubt she would believe me if I told her I want it to mean something. That I want her to want me, not because she was trapped or forced.
“Kinda, but now isn’t a good time to talk about it.”
“Kinda? That’s not an answer. If it doesn’t have to do with the ceremony only, then why wait?” She pauses for a moment, staring into my eyes. Then her lips tug up at the sides. “Don’t tell me you’re hoping that I fall in love with you?”
The challenge in her voice makes something dark coil in my gut. I know what she’s doing—pushing me, testing my boundaries, and trying to provoke me into doing something I’ll regret, that she’ll regret. Giving her a real reason to hate me.
“Don’t push me, Saint. I can do plenty without touching you with my cock.”
“Prove it,” she snarls.
“No. You’re vulnerable, and drunk.”
“Ooo, did the morally gray cowboy grow a conscience?”
“All you’re doing is trying to start a fight.”
“No. I’m asking for answers. So tell me, why wait?”
I sigh, knowing that I won’t win this battle with her. “Because I want it to be your choice, for it to happen when you are ready.”
“That sucks, because I’m never going to be ready.” Defiance bleeds into her voice. “I’m never going to want you.”
Well, we both know that’s a fucking lie.
“Go ahead. Lie to yourself.” I catch her chin between my fingers, giving her nowhere else to look. “But don’t lie to me, Saint. I know the truth, even if you don’t want to say it. I can see it. Feel it.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are, and the truth is eating away at you. It doesn’t matter how much you fight it.”
“I don’t want you,” she claims, even as her pulse hammers in her throat and her breaths grow more rapid.
“Then tell me to stop.” I lean in, so close that our lips are almost touching. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
We’re playing a dangerous game here, and I’m not sure who is going to win.
I know better, know I shouldn’t be pushing her, but I also know that nothing good comes from coddling.
Saint’s desperate for control, to feel anything that isn’t fear or helplessness.
I can give that to her. I can make her forget, even if it’s temporarily.
The dam inside her breaks, and she reaches for me, her hands fisting in my shirt. “This doesn’t change anything.”