Chapter 22 Calder
Calder
The sun sits low when I find her in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap. She’s changed into one of the soft cotton shirts I bought her. Dark olive. The color makes her eyes look like storm clouds.
I hate that she doesn’t even look my way when I walk in.
“It’s time,” I say.
Her hands twist together. Fingers lacing and unlacing. “I know.”
I move to the dresser and pull out one of my button-downs. A navy flannel soft enough not to irritate the skin and a loose pair of shorts.
“Put these on.”
She takes them without arguing and disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. The quiet sound of her breathing. When she comes out, I notice my shirt hangs off her frame, the sleeves too long.
She looks young. Fragile.
I hate it.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand.
She stares at it for a long moment then takes it. Her palm is cold, and her pulse hammers against my fingers.
The walk to the truck feels like miles. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. Just climbs into the passenger seat when I open the door and stares through the windshield at the barn in the distance.
I get behind the wheel but don’t start the engine.
The pill bottle sits in my pocket. I’ve been carrying it since this morning. Oxycodone. Strong enough to take the edge off. Not strong enough to erase what’s coming.
I pull out the bottle and shake two pills into my palm.
“Here.” I hold it out to her.
She looks at the pills. At me. Then back to the pills.
“What is it?”
“Pain medication. It’ll help.”
“Help with what? The pain or the memory?”
Fair question. “Both.”
She doesn’t take it. Just keeps staring at my open palm like it’s a snake about to strike.
“I don’t want it,” she says, finally.
“Saint—”
“No. I said I don’t want it.”
Her voice is quiet but firm. The same tone she used with her father this morning. The tone that says she’s made up her mind and nothing I say will change it. It would be better to let it go, to respect her decision, but I can’t.
“There’s no need to act brave. No one will judge you, least of all me, for taking something to help with the pain.”
“I’m not acting brave, and I don’t care if you judge me.” Turning, she looks at me, defiance flickering in her eyes. “If I’m going to carry this mark for the rest of my life, I want to remember every second of how I got it. I don’t want drugs making it fuzzy. Making it easier.”
“Easier is the point.”
“Not for me.” She looks back toward the barn. “If this is what it takes to keep us alive, then I want to feel it. All of it. Need to know exactly what your family is.”
The words land like a fist to the gut.
Because she’s right. This is what my family is. Medieval cruelty dressed up as tradition. And I’m about to let it happen to the one person I’ve been trying to protect.
“Saint—”
“Let’s just go.” She reaches for the seat belt. “Get it over with.”
I grab her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.
“You take the pills, or we sit here until you do.”
She turns back to me. Jaw set. Eyes blazing.
“You can’t make me.”
“I can.” I hold up the pills between us. “And we both know that I will.”
We stare at each other. Two stubborn people locked in a battle neither of us can win.
Then she laughs.
Not a happy sound. Something bitter and sharp cutting through the truck cab.
“So this is how it works,” she says. “You give me choices that aren’t really choices. Make me think I have control when I don’t.”
“This isn’t a choice. This is me trying to make something horrible slightly less horrible.”
“By forcing me to take drugs I don’t want?”
“By keeping you from screaming so loud you rupture something.” The words come out harsh.
Honest. “By keeping you from thrashing so hard, you make the brand blur. By giving you one small mercy in a situation that has none.” Her expression shifts, and with it, some of the fight drains away.
“I can’t stop this from happening, but I can make it easier.
I can protect you a little bit. Let me do that for you, Saint. ”
“How bad is it?” she asks quietly.
The last thing I want to do is scare her more than she already is, but there’s no lying to her either. “Bad. Bad enough that I know you’ll need it. So please take the pills.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she takes them from my palm, puts them on her tongue, and swallows them dry.
“There.” Her voice is flat. “Happy?”
No. Not even close.
I start the truck.
The main barn sits at the edge of the property. Big enough to stable twenty horses. Tonight, it’s empty of hands except for the people gathered inside.
My brothers stand near the center. Sawyer and Levi flank the left. Kade on the right, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Our mother stands apart from them all, near the wall, looking like she wants to disappear into the shadows.
Roman waits in the middle, next to the brazier.
The iron is already heating. I can see the tip glowing orange. Not white yet. Not hot enough. But getting there.
Saint goes rigid beside me. Her hand finds mine. Squeezes hard enough that bones grind.
“I can’t.” Her words come out barely above a whisper.
“You can.” I keep my voice low. Steady. “You’re tougher than you think.”
“That’s what Levi said.” She laughs again. That same broken sound. “Right before your father slapped me at dinner.”
The memory of that moment still makes my blood boil.
“That won’t happen tonight,” I grit out.
“You’re right. Something far worse will.”
I wish like hell this wasn’t our reality, that I didn’t have to subject her to this trauma, but I can’t do anything to change things.
Roman looks up as we approach. His expression is satisfied. Pleased. Like this is Christmas morning, and he’s about to open his favorite present.
“There’s my son.” His voice carries across the barn. “Bringing his bride to be marked properly.”
Saint’s hand tightens on mine. I feel her trembling.
“I don’t want to drag this out,” I say. “Saint’s scared enough without all the bullshit.”
Roman’s smile sharpens. “Oh really, and you think I give a fuck why?” I shouldn’t even try to reason with him. It’s insane at this point. “She’ll go through the ceremony the same as everyone else. We’ll take our time and make sure it’s done properly.”
It shouldn’t be done at all, but to say that to him would only earn me a punch to the face. He gestures to the stall behind him, which is empty except for a sturdy wooden post that’s sunk deep in the ground. There are already ropes tied to iron rings that are bolted into the wood.
“Calder.” Saint’s voice is small. Scared. “I don’t—”
The soft pleading in her voice sinks its claws into me.
I don’t want this to happen to her. I don’t want her to suffer, but it’s this or death, and I’m too selfish, too fucking gone for her to let her die.
“Shhh. I know.” I turn to face her and use my body to block Roman from view.
“It’s okay to be scared. I have you, sweet girl.
I’m right here. I’m with you every step of the way. ”
“I’m not—” She shakes her head. “I’m not strong enough to do this. I can’t.”
“That’s a lie. You’re strong. So fucking strong. The strongest person I know. Even stronger than me.” It’s the truth. Raw and unfiltered. “Don’t quit on me. I need you, Saint. You’ve survived everything else that’s been thrown at you. You’ll survive this too.”
Her eyes search mine, and I know she’s looking for an answer, to see if I’m lying, if I have a way to get her out of this, but there’s nothing there. Just fear and worry for the one person who wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me.
“Don’t leave me. Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She takes a couple of deep breaths, releasing them slowly through her nose. It’s like she’s calming herself down, or maybe building herself up? I guess I can’t really tell. After a moment, she pulls her hand from mine and walks toward the stall.
Roman watches her with a satisfied smile. “Good girl. Already learning her place.”
I clench my hand into a fist. The desire to hit him consumes me. Of all the times in my life when my father has hurt someone I love, my mother, or siblings, the desire to destroy him has never been as great as it is right this second.
If I could take Saint and disappear from this town, knowing my father would never find us, I already would’ve done it, but I know better. There is no escaping the Bishop name, no outrunning the nightmare.
Saint stops at the stall entrance, and Sawyer and Kade move into position.
There’s no missing the slight flinch of her body when they reach for her. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight or struggle. I’m not sure I could resist beating the fuck out of someone if they forceably moved her.
It only takes a minute for her to be secured against the post, her side lashed to the strong wood.
Roman steps forward, and I know what he’s going to do.
I move quickly and step into the space between them to tug the edge of her shorts down, but only low enough to display the upper curve of her hip.
The T-shirt I made her wear, my T-shirt, covers everything else up.
I tug my phone out of my pocket and see how much time has passed. Roughly six minutes. “It’s still too early.” My voice cuts through the silence. “We need to wait for the pill to kick in.”
“Don’t be soft, boy.” Roman checks the iron. Still orange. “Pain is part of the ceremony. Part of what makes the mark matter.”
“There will be pain, no matter what, but you don’t want her to move. If the brand blurs, then the process has to be restarted, and the risk of infection and mortality grows. If we go slow and do it the right way the first time, then we waste less time.”
I use his own logic and words against him, and it does the trick because he pauses. Roman hates imperfection. Hates anything that doesn’t go exactly according to plan.