Chapter 23 Saint #2
“Why are you being so careful?” I ask, the pills making me loose, making the words come easier than they should. “With me. Why bother when there’s always something else?”
“Because you’re hurt. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“I’m always going to be hurt.” I gesture vaguely at my hip, at the brand beneath the bandage that I still can’t bring myself to look at directly. “That’s what this is. That’s what being a Bishop wife means. So why does it matter how gentle you are now?”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something raw and honest breaking through the careful control he always maintains. “Because this isn’t just about the family or protecting myself anymore. I’m never going to let anyone else hurt you again.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous and full of implications I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“What is it about then? What do you want?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression shifts again, and I see the raw vulnerability he tries so hard to hide, that humanity beneath the monster he’s supposed to be.
“I don’t know,” he says, and I believe him because there’s no artifice in his voice, no calculation, just honest confusion.
“But I’m trying to figure it out. The one thing I do know is I want you. ”
The pills pull me under, dragging me down into that soft, warm darkness where pain fades and fear fades, and even the confusion about what I am to him fades until all that’s left is this moment, his presence anchoring me, his voice wrapping around me like a blanket.
The feeling of being cared for, even if it’s twisted and wrong, even if I shouldn’t want it, even if it makes me a traitor to myself and everything I used to believe in.
“Stay,” I say, the word slurred and drugged and desperate in ways I’ll probably regret when I’m clearheaded. “Don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay. Let me just grab you a protein bar first. You need to eat something.”
He rushes out of the room and returns quickly. I don’t realize how hungry I am until he unwraps the chocolate chip peanut butter bar and presses it into my hand. I scarf it down in minutes and it soothes some of the nausea in my belly.
Once he’s satisfied, he shifts and lies down beside me, careful not to jostle my wound, and his arm drapes over my stomach, warm and solid and real, anchoring me to something tangible while the pills drag me down into darkness.
This is wrong. I know it’s wrong, know I shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t feel safe with his arms around me, shouldn’t find comfort in the steady rhythm of his breathing or the heat of his body next to mine.
But I do.
When I wake again, the room is dim, with late-afternoon light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
The pills have worn off enough that I can think clearly, leaving just a dull ache in my hip that’s bearable and manageable, but everything still feels hazy around the edges, soft and distant, like I’m viewing the world through gauze.
Calder is still beside me, lying on top of the covers with his arm still around my stomach like he’s been there the whole time, like he hasn’t moved since I asked him to stay.
I shift slightly, and when searing agony doesn’t rip through me, I find myself grateful for the pills even though I hate the fact that I need them.
“Hey,” he says quietly, and I realize he’s been awake, probably has been this whole time, watching me sleep. “How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy.”
“That’s the pills.”
I turn my head to look at him properly, and he’s so close, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw that he hasn’t shaved, close enough to see the way his eyes aren’t quite as cold when he looks at me, like the ice is melting around the edges.
“I’m marked now,” I say, and the words feel important somehow, like acknowledging it out loud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before, makes it permanent and undeniable. “Permanently yours.”
“Yeah.”
“Should I feel different? I thought I would feel different, like the brand would change something fundamental inside me, but nothing’s different. Everything is still the same, except there’s pain now.”
His hand tightens a fraction on my waist, and I feel the tension in his body, the careful control he’s maintaining. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” The question comes out softer than I mean it to, not accusatory but genuinely curious, because I need to understand what goes on in his head, what he thinks about when he looks at the brand he let his father burn into my skin. “Or are you sorry it had to be this way?”
“Both.”
We lie there in the dimness, his warmth against my side grounding me, the steady rhythm of his breathing like a metronome marking time. Something shifts in me, something I don’t want to name or acknowledge or think about too hard because if I do, I’ll have to face what I’m becoming.
The pills make everything hazy, make my body feel languid and warm despite the pain, make me hyperaware of every place Calder’s touching me—his hand on the bare skin just above the edge of my panties, his chest pressed against my side, his breath ghosting across my hair.
I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, but the pills blur the lines between should and want, between right and wrong, between captive and something else entirely that I’m afraid to name.
“Calder?”
“Yeah?”
“The pills make everything feel…” I search for the right word, for a way to explain this feeling without admitting too much. “Different.”
“Different how?”
Heat pools low in my belly, inappropriate and wrong but undeniable, spreading through me like wildfire. “Like I can’t think straight. Like my body doesn’t remember why it should be afraid of you, why it should recoil from your touch instead of lean into it.”
His hand stills on my stomach, right under the edge of my shirt, and I feel the tension coil through his body. “Saint—”
“I know it’s the pills,” I say quickly, giving us both an excuse, a way out if we need it. “I know I shouldn’t… that we shouldn’t…when I’m healing.”
I don’t finish the sentence because his hand is warm on my skin, and my body is responding in ways that have nothing to do with the hatred I should be feeling.
Nothing to do with logic or reason or self-preservation and everything to do with this twisted thing between us that I can’t explain or deny or escape.
“This is a bad idea. You’re in pain,” he says, his voice rough and strained. “And drugged.”
“What if I want to?”
It’s a dangerous and bold question, and I wonder if this is who I’m becoming, someone who asks her captor to touch her, someone who begs for comfort from the man who destroyed her life, someone who can’t tell the difference between survival and surrender anymore.
“I know better,” he says, but his hand doesn’t move, nor does he pull away, staying warm and solid against my skin. “It’s the pills talking.”
“Maybe.” I turn to look at him, meeting those ice-blue eyes that see too much, that know too much. “Or maybe I just want to be comforted.”
A war is taking place in his mind. A fight between right and wrong. “I can comfort you by holding you. I don’t have to fuck you. I can’t. Not when you’re high, hurting, and fragile.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I tilt my head to the side. “I’m in this situation because of you. Why not let me have this one thing, even if it’s wrong, even if I might regret it tomorrow?”
“Because it’s not right.”
“Nothing about this is right.” My hand finds his chest, resting over his heart, and I can feel it pounding beneath my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
“If I wait for things to be right, I’ll be dead, and if I’m being honest…
I’m tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of pretending I don’t feel whatever this is between us, this twisted fucked-up thing that shouldn’t exist but does anyway. ”
“Saint—”
“Please.” The word comes out breathy and desperate, and I hate how much I mean it, hate how much I need this. “I just want to feel something other than pain. Just for a little while. Just until the pills wear off and reality returns, and I have to face what I’ve become.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, war playing out behind his eyes, and I know he’s fighting himself as much as he’s fighting me, torn between what’s right and what we both want.
Then his hand moves from my belly and slides lower, almost hesitant, like he’s giving me time to change my mind, time to come to my senses and push him away.
I don’t change my mind.
His fingers find the waistband of my panties and slip beneath, and I gasp at the contact, at the heat of his skin against mine, at the way my body responds immediately like it’s been waiting for this.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice strained and rough. “Tell me this is a bad idea, and I’ll stop. I’ll pull away right now.”
I don’t tell him to stop. Don’t tell him anything. I just press closer and let him see the answer in my eyes, let him see how much I need this, even if I shouldn’t, even if it’s wrong, even if it makes me weak.
His fingers slide lower, and he finds me already wet, already ready for him despite the pain, despite everything, despite all the reasons this shouldn’t be happening.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word rough and ragged. “Saint—”
“Don’t stop.” My hand fists in the bottom edge of his shirt, anchoring myself to him, to this moment. “Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop. Thank God, he doesn’t stop.
His fingers move slowly, gently, being careful of my injuries even as he gives me what I’m asking for, what I need more than air or water or any of the things that should matter more than this.
The pills make everything feel heightened, every touch electric, every movement sending waves of pleasure through me that temporarily eclipse the pain, drowning out everything except the feeling of his hands on me and the heat building low in my belly.
I press my face against his shoulder, breathing him in, cedar and leather, all Calder.
His thumb finds my clit, circles it slowly and deliberately, building the pressure with practiced ease until I’m gasping against his neck, until my hips are moving of their own accord, chasing the sensation, chasing the release that’s building inside me like a tidal wave.
“Yes, that’s it. Give it to me, sweet girl,” he murmurs against my hair, his breath warm and encouraging. “Give me your pleasure.”
And I do. I let myself fall apart in his arms, let the pleasure wash over me in waves that temporarily drown out everything else, the brand, the pain, the knowledge of what I’ve become, what we’ve both become in this twisted dance we’re doing.
For these few moments, there’s only this, only his hands on me and his breath against my hair and the feeling of being wanted instead of owned, of being touched with care instead of cruelty.
When it’s over, I sag against him, boneless and sated, the pills and the orgasm combining to make everything feel soft and distant again, wrapping me in a cocoon where nothing can hurt me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words barely audible.
His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I wanted to. Wanted you to know I chose this, that it wasn’t just the pills or the pain.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, the gesture so unexpectedly tender that my chest aches.
“Get some rest,” he says softly. “You need to sleep.”
I should probably protest, should probably think about what just happened and what it means and how it changes things between us. But the pills are pulling me under again, dragging me back down into that warm darkness, and I’m too tired to fight it, too tired to analyze or worry or regret.
So I just let myself drift, safe in his arms, satisfied in a way I shouldn’t be, and terrifyingly aware that something between us has shifted, that I’m not just his captive anymore.
I’m not sure what I am, but it’s something more, something dangerous, something that feels an awful lot like falling even though I know there’s no safety net to catch me when I hit the ground.