“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says finally. “You need to heal first. Focus on that. Saint, look, I can’t tell you everything. Not yet. But please know, in a couple of weeks, when my father calls for that ceremony, I’m not going to let it happen.”
“What does that mean?” I whisper, a dull blip of hope in my heart.
He gulps hard and ducks his head in an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. “I can’t lose you, Saint, not like this. If you can’t handle me . . . that’s one thing. But I’m not losing the chance of what we have here because of my asshole father.”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Lie here, heal, and I’ll tell you more when I can.”
Focus on healing. As if that’s all there is, as if I can just rest and recover and everything will be fine, as if another horror isn’t waiting on the other side of recovery like a predator in the shadows. But he’s right in a way. I need to heal, need to survive this first before I can worry about what comes next, need to take it one day at a time, or I’ll go insane thinking about all the ways his family can hurt me. If they might hurt me? The idea of no longer having to face any more horror eases something inside me.
The pills start working, their warmth spreading through my veins like honey, and the edges of the pain soften, becoming bearable, manageable. My breathing evens out, and the room stops spinning quite so violently, leaving me floating in this strange in-between space where everything feels distant and unreal.
I should hate him. Should despise every inch of the man who brought me here, who forced me to marry him against my will, and who stood by while his father branded me like livestock. But I don’t, and that’s the worst part, that’s the thing that terrifies me more than the pain or the brand or the knowledge of what’s still coming. I don’t hate him.
Instead, I find myself watching him, noting the way he moves around the room with that predator’s grace, the careful way he handles the medical supplies like they’re precious, the concernin his eyes when he looks at me like I’m something worth protecting instead of something he’s destroyed.
“Why are you being so careful?” I ask, the pills making me loose, making the words come easier than they should. “With me. Why bother when there’s always something else?”
“Because you’re hurt. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“I’m always going to be hurt.” I gesture vaguely at my hip, at the brand beneath the bandage that I still can’t bring myself to look at directly. “That’s what this is. That’s what being a Bishop wife means. So why does it matter how gentle you are now?”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something raw and honest breaking through the careful control he always maintains. “Because this isn’t just about the family or protecting myself anymore. I’m never going to let anyone else hurt you again.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous and full of implications I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“What is it about then? What do you want?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression shifts again, and I see the raw vulnerability he tries so hard to hide, that humanity beneath the monster he’s supposed to be. “I don’t know,” he says, and I believe him because there’s no artifice in his voice, no calculation, just honest confusion. “But I’m trying to figure it out. The one thing I do know is I want you.”
The pills pull me under, dragging me down into that soft, warm darkness where pain fades and fear fades, and even the confusion about what I am to him fades until all that’s left is this moment, his presence anchoring me, his voice wrapping around me like a blanket. The feeling of being cared for, even if it’s twisted and wrong, even if I shouldn’t want it, even if it makes me a traitor to myself and everything I used to believe in.
“Stay,” I say, the word slurred and drugged and desperate in ways I’ll probably regret when I’m clearheaded. “Don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay. Let me just grab you a protein bar first. You need to eat something.”
He rushes out of the room and returns quickly. I don’t realize how hungry I am until he unwraps the chocolate chip peanut butter bar and presses it into my hand. I scarf it down in minutes and it soothes some of the nausea in my belly.
Once he’s satisfied, he shifts and lies down beside me, careful not to jostle my wound, and his arm drapes over my stomach, warm and solid and real, anchoring me to something tangible while the pills drag me down into darkness. This is wrong. I know it’s wrong, know I shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t feel safe with his arms around me, shouldn’t find comfort in the steady rhythm of his breathing or the heat of his body next to mine.
But I do.
When I wake again, the room is dim, with late-afternoon light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The pills have worn off enough that I can think clearly, leaving just a dull ache in my hip that’s bearable and manageable, but everything still feels hazy around the edges, soft and distant, like I’m viewing the world through gauze.
Calder is still beside me, lying on top of the covers with his arm still around my stomach like he’s been there the whole time, like he hasn’t moved since I asked him to stay.
I shift slightly, and when searing agony doesn’t rip through me, I find myself grateful for the pills even though I hate the fact that I need them.
“Hey,” he says quietly, and I realize he’s been awake, probably has been this whole time, watching me sleep. “How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy.”
“That’s the pills.”
I turn my head to look at him properly, and he’s so close, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw that he hasn’t shaved, close enough to see the way his eyes aren’t quite as cold when he looks at me, like the ice is melting around the edges.
“I’m marked now,” I say, and the words feel important somehow, like acknowledging it out loud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before, makes it permanent and undeniable. “Permanently yours.”
