Chapter 21 Saint
Saint
I wake to sunlight cutting through the curtains and the smell of whiskey soaked into my skin. My head pounds with each heartbeat, a dull throb behind my eyes that makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never emerge.
But it’s the other pain that stops me cold.
The ache between my legs. The soreness in muscles I didn’t know could hurt. The tender spots on my wrists where his fingers pressed too hard.
Physical evidence of what happened last night. What I let happen. What I asked for, even if I was drunk and terrified and desperate for anything that wasn’t thinking about—tonight.
The spot beside me is empty, the sheets cold. Calder’s already up, probably working outside or avoiding me, or both. Part of me is relieved. I don’t know how I should look at him this morning. I don’t know what to say after everything we did on that kitchen counter.
I sit up slowly, testing my body’s limits. Everything protests. My head swims, stomach churning with nausea that’s equal parts hangover and shame.
I need water. Coffee. Something to wash away the taste of regret and whiskey.
The house is quiet when I emerge from the bedroom, wearing one of his flannels over my sleep shorts because I can’t bear the thought of anything touching my skin right now. My bare feet are silent on the wood floors as I make my way to the kitchen.
And stop dead.
The food from last night is cleaned up. The clothes too. The counter where he... where we... is scrubbed clean. No evidence remains except the marks on my body and the memories burning behind my eyes.
The coffee pot is full and still warm. A glass of water sits on the counter with two ibuprofen beside it.
He knew I’d wake up like this. Prepared for it. The gesture is so thoughtful it makes my chest ache. Dammit.
I down the pills and drain the glass of water, then pour a cup of coffee with shaking hands. The first sip burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It’s something I can control.
I’m standing at the sink, staring out at the ranch spread before me, when I hear a car pull up. The churning of tires caught beneath gravel.
Panic makes my heartbeat rise, and with one glance out the window, I know who’s here. I recognize the truck as my father’s.
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “No, no, no.”
Now is not a good time. Not when I’m hungover, sore, and smelling like a mixture of sex and a distillery.
Shit. I race up the stairs and pull on some clothes, trying my best to look presentable.
I pass the dresser, and one look at my hair tells me I need to do something about this.
Gathering the golden strands together, I pull my hair up into a messy bun.
In my mind, he’s already parking. Already opening his door. Crap. Where the hell is Calder when you need him? His truck wasn’t in the driveway when I looked out the window earlier. He must be out in the barn or the upper pasture.
God, please. I don’t even know what I’m praying for anymore. Strength? Forgiveness? The ability to lie to my father’s face, again?
Maybe all three.
I’ve barely made it down the stairs when I hear the knock at the door. The three firm raps echo through the house like gunshots. I force myself to walk to the door and open it slowly. To smile like my world isn’t ending one day at a time.
“Dad.” My voice comes out rough, and I clear my throat. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He stands on the porch with a box in his arms, his expression unreadable. He looks older than the last time I saw him. The lines around his eyes are deeper, his shoulders more bowed. Like the weight of what happened in our living room is slowly crushing him.
“I figured maybe it would be okay if I brought some of your things.” He doesn’t move to come inside. He just holds the box out between us. “It’s got clothes. Your Bible. Some of your mother’s things that I thought you might want.”
The mention of my mother nearly breaks me, and I have to blink back the tears that sting my eyes.
“Thank you.”
Silence stretches between us. He’s studying my face, taking in details I can’t hide, the shadows under my eyes, the way I’m holding myself too carefully, and the flannel that’s obviously not mine.
“Can I come in?” The question is careful, like he’s afraid of the answer.
I should say no and protect us both from what this conversation will be. I step back anyway, opening the door wider.
“Of course.”
He follows me inside, and I’m hyperaware of everything that filters through his eyes. The house that isn’t mine. The ring on my finger that catches in the morning light. The smell of coffee. He sets the box on the dining table, needing to create distance.
“You look tired,” he says carefully.
“I didn’t sleep well.” At least I’m telling the truth. I move to the kitchen and start pulling out flour, sugar, and baking powder. “Can I get you some coffee? I was just about to make biscuits.”
“Biscuits.” His eyes shine a little brighter then. “Like always.”
“Old habit.” I retrieve supplies because it lets me keep my back to him.
That way, I do not have to see the grief etched into his features any longer than necessary.
I measure ingredients with shaking hands, grateful for the familiar routine.
Something I can do without thinking. “You know me. Can’t start the day without baking something. ”
“Do I?” The question lands heavy. “Know you?”
I keep my eyes on the dough that’s started to come together in the bowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the Saintlyn I know, who I raised, wouldn’t be here.” His voice is quiet. Controlled. “She wouldn’t have married a Bishop.”
I pause with my hands still in the flour. “People and things change. That’s life.”
“Sure, but not this much or this fast.” Stepping closer now, I can feel him trying to catch my eye. “Saintlyn, would you please look at me?”
I do, and immediately wish I hadn’t, because the pain I see in his eyes crumbles the last bit of my resolve. I can play my part, keep the lie going, but only if I’m not looking him right in the eyes.
“You don’t have to lie. I can get you away,” he says, words tumbling out urgent and desperate.
“I’ve been making calls and talking to people.
We can leave together. Tonight, if you want.
I have money saved, enough to get us far away from here.
Colorado, maybe. Or Oregon. Somewhere the Bishops can’t touch us. ”
The offer lands like a grenade. For a moment, one beautiful, terrible moment, I let myself imagine it.
Running away with my father. Starting over somewhere new.
Being just Saint James again, not Saint Bishop.
Not a wife. Not a captive. The fantasy crumbles as fast as it forms. There is no way out, not when I know Roman would find us.
He’d track us down like a bloodhound and then kill me, or worse, kill my father and make me watch.
“I know it’s hard for you to accept, but I have no reason to leave.” I force the words out of my mouth, then turn my attention back to the dough.
“What?” His voice cracks.
“I love him, Dad.” The words feel like glass in my throat, cutting on the way out. “I know you don’t understand. I know it seemed... forced. But it wasn’t. Not really.”
“Saintlyn—”
“No!” I yell. “You need to stop. Stop trying to get me to leave. Stop asking questions and giving solutions to a problem that doesn’t exist. I want to be here. I love Calder.”
“Love? This isn’t love, sweetheart. Love is what your mother and I had. That’s love. This is… something else entirely.”
I’m barely keeping myself together, barely holding back the tears. I’d always hoped to have a love story as timeless as my parents. I guess my luck ran out.
“You don’t have to agree or like it, but it’s my choice.”
“No.” He shakes his head violently. “I saw your face when he put that gun to my chest. Saw how terrified you were. That wasn’t a choice, Saintlyn. None of this has been a choice.”
“I was scared,” I admit carefully. “Scared of how you’d react. Scared you’d try to stop me. But not scared of Calder.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue. “Never of him.”
Then I realize with a jolt that it’s not a lie. I’m not afraid of him anymore.
“If he doesn’t hurt you. If you aren’t scared of him.” He stops, eyes dropping to my wrists. To the bruises visible beneath the flannel’s rolled cuffs, then back up to my cheek. “Then why are you covered in marks?”
Heat floods my face. “That’s private.”
“Private.” His voice goes flat. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” Too fast. Too defensive. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what to think!” He’s standing now, hands fisted at his sides. “Because from where I’m standing, my daughter is covered in bruises, living with a man who forced her into marriage, and I’m supposed to believe this is love?”
The words hang between us, ugly and true.
“You’re supposed to trust me.” I keep my voice soft, hurt rather than angry. “You’re supposed to believe that I know my own heart.”
“I promised your mother.” His voice breaks completely now, tears tracking down his face. “When she was dying, I promised her I’d take care of you. Keep you safe. You being here, caught up in this. It means I’ve failed..”
“Dad—”
His hands are shaking. “All I want—is to kill him. To take my daughter and run and never look back. What kind of man does that make me?“
“The kind who loves his daughter.” I temper my voice, keeping it soft, genuine emotion bleeding through the lies. “You haven’t failed me.”
“Haven’t I?” He looks at his hands like they’re covered in blood. “If I’d been stronger, smarter, better—”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Truth, finally.
“Then let me get you away from here.” He reaches for my hands across the counter. “Please, Saintlyn. Let me fix this. Let me be your father again instead of this... this failure.”