He lifts the shirt carefully, and the air is cool against my revealed skin. Gently he pulls off the tape. I don’t look down. Can’t look at what Roman did to me.
Calder makes a sound low in his throat, not quite a curse, not quite a sigh, but something in between that makes my stomach twist.
“How bad?” I ask, still staring at the ceiling because I’m afraid if I look at his face I’ll see something I don’t want to see, pity or regret or worse, satisfaction.
“It’s blistering. But no infection.” His fingers are gentle as he touches the skin around the brand, clinical and careful like he’s examining livestock, and I hate that the comparison isn’t even wrong. “I need to clean it. Then new gauze, just to keep it covered and clean.”
“Do what you need to do.”
I stare at the ceiling while he works, counting in my head, feeling him dab something cool and wet against my skin that stings and burns and makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from whimpering because I don’t want him to see how much it hurts.
“Almost done,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.
His hands are gentle, so gentle it makes my chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with the brand, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? That I notice his tenderness, that I’m grateful for the care, that I feel safer when he’s in the room even though he’s the reason I need safety in the first place. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
I shouldn’t notice the way he touches me, shouldn’t be grateful for the gentle way he tapes the fresh bandage in place, shouldn’t feel this confusing tangle of emotions that I can’t sort through because the pills are making everything fuzzy and soft around the edges.
But I do.
He finishes taping the bandage, pulls the shirt back down with fingers lingering for just a second on the fabric before he pulls away, creating distance between us that feels both necessary and wrong.
“You should take more pills,” he says, his voice rough. “The pain will get worse as the first dose wears off.”
I want to refuse, want to feel every second of this so I never forget what his family is capable of, so I never let myself get soft or comfortable or foolish enough to think this could be anything other than what it is. But the fire in my wound is already building again, a constant reminder of what I’ve become, and I’m not strong enough to face that without help.
I nod. He brings me two more pills, and I swallow them down with water, feeling them stick in my throat before finally sliding down.
“I need the bathroom,” I say.
“Let me help?—”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, ignoring the way the room tilts and sways, steadying myself against the nightstand with one hand pressed flat against the wood. “I can manage.”
I make it to the bathroom and use the toilet, noticing somewhere in the back of my fuzzy mind that he took off my shorts, so I’m just in the shirt and my cotton panties. I splash water on my face even though it hurts to move my arms, even though every movement sends little jolts of pain through my hip, and I catch my reflection in the mirror before I can look away.
The bandage is visible at the edge of my shirt, white gauze and medical tape, the skin around it bright pink. One look at my reflection and I’m done for. I’m pale, my eyes hollow. It looks like I’ve aged years in the span of a single night.
When I exit, Calder is still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with those all-seeing eyes that miss nothing, that catalog every wince, stumble, and tremble of pain.
“You should rest,” he says, his voice gentle in a way that makes my throat tight. “Let the pills work.”
I climb back into bed, and he adjusts the pillows behind me, propping me up so I’m half-sitting, and the gesture is almost tender in a way that makes me want to cry or scream or both.
“How long before it heals?” I ask, needing to know, needing to understand the timeline of this new hell I’m living in.
“A few weeks. Maybe a month before the worst of it is over.”
“And then the ceremony,” I say, making myself acknowledge it out loud, making myself face the next horror that’s waiting on the other side of recovery. “The one Elena warned me about.”
His jaw tightens and I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin. “We don’t have to talk about that right now.”
“When do we talk about it? When it’s happening? When it’s too late to prepare for whatever fresh hell your family has planned?”
“Saint—”
“I have a right to know what’s coming.” My voice is steadier than I feel, stronger than I have any right to be, given that I can barely sit up without wanting to pass out. “I need to know what else is going to happen.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he’s looking for something. What does he see? The preacher’s daughter I used to be, or the broken thing I’m becoming under the weight of the Bishop cruelty.
