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.”
Saint
Pain wakes me,not the dull, throbbing kind I’ve felt after falling from a horse or the sharp sting of a paper cut, but fire, my entire side burning from the inside out like someone’s holding a torch to my ribs and won’t let go. I try to move, but my body feels weighted down, limbs heavy and uncooperative, and when I open my eyes, the room spins, ceiling tilting and swaying like I’m on a boat in rough water.
Pills. He gave me pills.
The memory surfaces through the fog, slow and syrupy. Two pills. White and round. Swallowed with water he held to my lips after?—
After.
My hand moves to my hip, fingers brushing gauze and tape, and reality crashes over me in waves. The brand. The scar I’ll carry forever, burned into my skin just near my hip bone.
Nausea rolls through me, and I turn my head and press my cheek against the pillow, grateful for the cool cotton against my fevered skin. I can still feel the wooden post against my back, the rope biting into my flesh. I can still smell the burning of my flesh.
“You’re awake.”
Calder’s voice comes from somewhere to my right, and I force my eyes open again, blinking against the light until I find him sitting in the chair by the window. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, dark jeans, black thermal shirt, and he looks like he hasn’t slept, shadows beneath those all-seeing eyes that watch me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“How long?” My voice comes out scratchy and raw, like I’ve been screaming.
“Fourteen hours. It’s almost noon.”
Noon. Which means it’s Tuesday. Which means yesterday really happened, the barn, the ropes, the iron pressed against my skin while Roman watched with satisfaction. I close my eyes again, trying to block out the memory, but it’s burned into my mind as permanently as the mark on my hip.
“You need water,” Calder says, and I hear him stand, the chair creaking under his weight. “And I need to check the bandage.”
The bed dips as he sits beside me, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, gentle, too gentle for a man who let his father burn me. But what’s the point of being angry? What will it change? I’m marked now, permanently, and the rage won’t undo that, won’t make the brand disappear, won’t give me my old life back or erase the memory of the smell or the sound or the way Roman smiled when I screamed.
So I just nod and accept the glass of water he holds to my lips, drinking until my throat doesn’t feel like sandpaper anymore, until I can swallow without wincing.
“I’ll be gentle,” he says quietly, carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he speaks too loud. “Just want to make sure there’s no infection starting.”
“Okay.”
