“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 survivedeverything 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 onlylow 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.
“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.”
