Chapter 22 Calder #2
“You’re right, son.” He sets the iron back in the brazier. “Let’s give it another five minutes. Then we will proceed, whether the drugs have kicked in or not.”
I move closer to Saint, and Sawyer and Kade step back, giving us space.
She’s breathing too fast. Shallow gasps that mean she’s on the edge of panic.
Her storm-blue eyes flit around as if trying to find something to focus on, a fine sheen of sweat slicking her pale skin.
And she is pale. Even in the darkened interior of the barn, she looks washed out, her honey-blond hair a halo of gold around her face, hanging in a loose braid over one shoulder.
“Hey.” I stop in front of her and put my hands on her hips to anchor her. “Look at me.”
Her beautiful eyes find mine. They’re blown wide, and her lips are trembling. “Find something to focus on. It’ll help.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A memory. A prayer. Something.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “My mother used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep. An old hymn. ‘It Is Well With My Soul.’“
Of course it would be a hymn. Of course she’d choose something good and pure to hold on to during this nightmare.
“Then think about that,” I say. “Think about her voice. The words. Block everything else out.”
“Will it work?”
“It’ll work if you want it to work. No matter what, you’ve got this.” I come to a stand and back away slowly. Kade and Sawyer check their knots. The ropes aren’t tight enough to hurt but they’re secure. She won’t be able to move her torso when the iron comes.
Levi won’t meet my eyes. He’s staring at the ground, jaw clenched, hands shoved in his pockets. Elena looks like she’s about to be sick. Roman pulls the iron from the brazier. The tip is white now. Hot enough that I can feel the heat radiating from it even at ten feet.
“Saintlyn Bishop.” Roman’s voice takes on a ceremonial quality. “You’ve married into this family and taken our name. Now you’ll take our mark.”
Saint’s breathing is still too fast for my liking, and her eyes are closed.
Her lips move silently. Either in prayer or singing, it doesn’t matter.
She’s somewhere else, somewhere I can’t follow her.
Roman approaches her, and I have to stop myself from pushing him out of the way.
The iron casts ugly light across his face, making him look more demonic than human.
“Hold still, girl,” he says. “This’ll hurt.”
He pulls up the flannel shirt with his free hand. The smooth flank of her hip underneath.
It’s the perfect canvas for his cruelty.
I grit my teeth as I watch him position the iron and then press it against her skin.
My heart sinks into my stomach, and bile rises in my throat as the smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils.
I want to look away, but I can’t. I won’t.
I watch because I deserve to see this, to feel Saint’s pain.
Her eyes fly open, and her lips part on a silent scream. The ropes creak as her body tries instinctively to pull away. I hate myself. I hate my family. Hate that I’ve subjected such a pure, angelic creature to such horrible things.
Roman holds the iron to her skin, and the seconds tick by slowly.
One. Two. Three.
Rage simmers in my veins. Too long. He’s holding it too long.
I move before my brain can tell me to stop. “That’s enough.”
“Not yet.” Roman’s voice is calm. Pleasant. Like he’s teaching me how to properly season a steak. “If we don’t keep it on long enough, we’ll have to do it again.”
Four. Five.
Saint’s silent scream finally found sound, and I’ll never forget the way it sounded. Like a wounded animal being ripped apart at the seams. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t subject her to the pain.
Reaching for his arm, I yell, “That’s enough. Stop.”
He pulls the iron away just before my hand reaches him. There’s no missing the icy-cold satisfaction that fills his eyes.
“It’s enough when I say it’s enough,” he growls and examines the brand. “Nice clean lines. That scar will be beautiful.”
Beautiful? I’ve done so many terrible things in my life, but none of those things have left me with the guilt I’m feeling right now. I can’t look at Saint’s hip right now. Not without wanting to destroy my father. I allowed this to happen. I did this to her.
I direct my attention to her face. She’s not crying. Her big blue eyes are open, the pupils dilated and unfocused. And despite my own rage, guilt, and horror of the situation, I feel something else when I look at her now.
Pride. My angel didn’t break. Didn’t beg. Didn’t give Roman the satisfaction of watching her shatter, and that’s… there are no words to describe it. She’s far more than I deserve, far more than I ever expected her to be.
“Someone get the medical supplies,” Roman demands, wiping the iron clean like it’s just another tool. “Elena, you remember the aftercare, right?”
My mother steps forward with a large bag in her hands. I notice the way her fingers tremble as she pulls supplies out. Antibiotic ointment. Gauze. Tape. She’s just as traumatized by this as the rest of us are, even if she does her best to hide it.
Before she gets the chance to start tending to the wound, I step between her and Saint. I pull the knife I keep in my boot out and slice through the ropes with ease.
“Calder—” My mother starts, but I don’t give a shit about what she wants.
“She’s my wife, and her care falls into my hands. I’ll be the one to clean and bandage her wound. No one else.”
It’s not a request, and my tone tells her I’m not messing around. She doesn’t even bother responding and passes the supplies to me. I crouch down in front of Saint as exhaustion and the decrease in adrenaline cause her body to give out. Slowly, she sinks to her knees, her blue eyes on me.
There’s still a faraway look in her eyes, but I know she can hear me. I know that she knows I’m right here with her, shouldering the pain, wishing I could carry it as my own.
“Let me take a look at it,” I say quietly. “I want to make sure it looks okay and clean it up.” She doesn’t speak, but she does nod. I tug the shirt up just enough to keep it out of the way but not enough to expose her any more than necessary.
I swallow my guilt down and force myself to look at the brand that she will wear on her skin for the rest of her life. The Bishop brand is burned into her flesh just below her hip bone and is the size of my palm. The letter P is intertwined with a larger B.
Our family crest. Our mark of ownership.
The flesh around it is already blistering and red and angry-looking. I pull out some non-sticking gauze and gently cover it. It’s all we can do for now.
Saint hisses in pain through her teeth, her entire body tensing up. “I know,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is hoarse, cracked. “I’m fine.”
It’s a lie. She’s not fine, not even fucking close, but she’s alive. She’s breathing, and soon enough, she will be safe and free of this family.
“Let me take you home,” I whisper as I reach down and take her small body into my arms. How can something so small and fragile hold such strength?
“Yes, let’s go home,” she whispers against my chest.
Home. She called it home. I don’t say goodbye, or even let anyone know I’m leaving. If they have a problem with it, they can take it up with me later. My only priority right now is Saint. I walk out of the barn and carry her toward the truck.
The farther away we get, the more the bullshit fades.
I can’t see Roman’s satisfied grin in my mind anymore.
I can’t feel the suffocating weight of Levi’s guilt.
Or the haunted expression in my mother’s eyes.
The noose around my neck isn’t as tight, and by the time we’re in the car, I can breathe again.
Saint doesn’t speak on the drive back, and I’m too consumed with my own emotions and thoughts to say anything.
I guess that’s a good thing since right now isn’t a good time to lose my shit. I need to be strong, at least for her.
I’m glad she took the pill I gave her. It’s kicked in by now, hopefully taking the brunt of the pain away. Thank God for small mercies. If I could’ve been branded a second time in her place, I would’ve. I never wanted this for Saint.
Back at the house, I get her from the truck and carry her straight up the stairs and into our bedroom. I gently set her on the edge of the bed, making sure she won’t roll off. Then I walk into the bathroom and grab a thing of pills from the medicine cabinet.
I return to the bed and find her in the same position I left her.
I stare at her face, taking note of the dazed expression.
“The first three days are the worst when it comes to pain, so I’m going to give you another pill,” I say.
“This one is stronger than the last one and will stay in your system for a bit longer. It’ll also help you sleep. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbles.
She doesn’t put up any argument, or fight, and that scares me more than her defiance ever did.
I shake out two pills from the container and bring them to her lips, uncapping a bottle of water that’s on the nightstand.
She takes them without batting an eye and lets me help her lie back against the pillows.
Once she’s settled in, I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
I’ll be sitting here for a while, checking on her, re-checking the wound.
Minutes tick by, and I just stare at my hands, guilt plaguing me.
Would she have been better off dead? Did keeping her alive only elongate her suffering? Fuck. I don’t know the answer to that.
I look up from my hands and at her face. Her eyes are open, and she’s staring right at me. Has she been watching me the whole time?
“Calder?” she whispers.
“Yeah, sweet girl?”
“I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” I snort. “Thank you for what? Letting my father hurt you? For putting you through more shit?” I can feel myself spiraling, and now is not the time for this.
“No. Thank you for being there with me. For staying. For caring.” Her eyes flutter closed, and there’s a fist-sized hole in my chest that her words leave behind.
I couldn’t admit it before. Couldn’t see past anything other than possession when it came to her, but that was before she showed me what she was capable of. That she was my equal. That she was strong and determined. Now I know it’s true.
I’m falling in love with Saint.
The woman who isn’t my wife by choice, but by survival.
A marriage born from fear, not love. She’s gone through hell, been branded and marked as property of the Bishop family.
I want to say the terrible things end here, but they don’t.
This is just the beginning. Next is the consummation ceremony. The one Elena warned her about.
It’ll be the final nail in her coffin, the thing that breaks her. I know it. I can feel it in my bones, and I can’t let it happen. Won’t let it happen. My father has taken enough from me. He’s not taking Saint too. That means I’ll have to do what I should’ve done all along.
I’ll have to end Roman Bishop.
Betraying my family was never something I had the intention of doing, but killing Saint was never going to be an option either. I’m at a crossroads again, and I already know what needs to happen. This time the choice is easy. There’s no wavering. No guilt.
Once I’m certain Saint is settled and won’t wake, I walk downstairs going straight into the room that serves as an office. I head to the desk drawer on the right and open it. Inside is a burner phone that I picked up years ago. I got it just in case I ever needed a backup plan.
Now is the time to engage that plan.
Roman Bishop used to have my loyalty.
Not anymore.
With the phone in my hand I step out onto the porch and make a call. The one that’s going to make or break someone’s career.
“Hello?” the woman greets.
“It’s Calder,” I say. “And I’m ready to talk.”