“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 walkinto 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.
