Saving her life and connecting it with mine put her in danger. Tomorrow, she would get branded with my family crest and become property of the Bishops, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I had to find a solution to this, a way to end it. I wanted a future with Saint, whatever that might look like, and I knew in order to get that, I would have to make a sacrifice, something bigger than the one I had already made.
I could only hope Saint was strong enough to endure what was to come.
Saint
I waketo 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 truckwasn’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.
