I don’t tell him to stop. Don’t tell him anything. I just press closer and let him see the answer in my eyes, let him see how much I need this, even if I shouldn’t, even if it’s wrong, even if it makes me weak.
His fingers slide lower, and he finds me already wet, already ready for him despite the pain, despite everything, despite all the reasons this shouldn’t be happening.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word rough and ragged. “Saint?—”
“Don’t stop.” My hand fists in the bottom edge of his shirt, anchoring myself to him, to this moment. “Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop. Thank God, he doesn’t stop.
His fingers move slowly, gently, being careful of my injuries even as he gives me what I’m asking for, what I need more than air or water or any of the things that should matter more than this. The pills make everything feel heightened, every touch electric, every movement sending waves of pleasure through me that temporarily eclipse the pain, drowning out everything except the feeling of his hands on me and the heat building low in my belly.
I press my face against his shoulder, breathing him in, cedar and leather, all Calder.
His thumb finds my clit, circles it slowly and deliberately, building the pressure with practiced ease until I’m gasping against his neck, until my hips are moving of their own accord, chasing the sensation, chasing the release that’s building inside me like a tidal wave.
“Yes, that’s it. Give it to me, sweet girl,” he murmurs against my hair, his breath warm and encouraging. “Give me your pleasure.”
And I do. I let myself fall apart in his arms, let the pleasure wash over me in waves that temporarily drown out everything else, the brand, the pain, the knowledge of what I’ve become, what we’ve both become in this twisted dance we’re doing. For these few moments, there’s only this, only his hands on me and his breath against my hair and the feeling of being wanted instead of owned, of being touched with care instead of cruelty.
When it’s over, I sag against him, boneless and sated, the pills and the orgasm combining to make everything feel soft and distant again, wrapping me in a cocoon where nothing can hurt me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words barely audible.
His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I wanted to. Wanted you to know I chose this, that it wasn’t just the pills or the pain.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, the gesture so unexpectedly tender that my chest aches.
“Get some rest,” he says softly. “You need to sleep.”
I should probably protest, should probably think about what just happened and what it means and how it changes things between us. But the pills are pulling me under again, dragging me back down into that warm darkness, and I’m too tired to fight it, too tired to analyze or worry or regret.
So I just let myself drift, safe in his arms, satisfied in a way I shouldn’t be, and terrifyingly aware that something between us has shifted, that I’m not just his captive anymore. I’m not sure what I am, but it’s something more, something dangerous, something that feels an awful lot like falling even though I know there’s no safety net to catch me when I hit the ground.
Calder
It’s beentwo weeks since the branding, and still, I check on Saint every morning before dawn breaks. Not because I need to, her wound is healing well. It’s pink and tender but no longer the angry red that kept me awake those first couple of nights, with fear that she might stop breathing or wake up in pain.
I had developed this uncanny need to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest. It was as if that was the only proof I had that she had survived what my family did to her. What I allowed to happen.
The house is quiet this morning, just the soft sounds of her breathing and the wind testing the windowpanes. Outside, the mountains rise dark against the predawn sky, silent witnesses to everything that’s happened in this valley. To everything still to come.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. She needs the rest, needs every moment of peace she can steal before reality crashes back in. Before what Roman has planned. And what I have planned.
The thought of it makes something twist in my gut, sharp and painful. The full moon is in a few days. Roman’s been patient, forhim, but his patience has limits. I’ve been playing for time since the branding, using Saint’s recovery as an excuse to postpone what Roman calls the “consummation ceremony.” The thought of it makes rage rise up to choke me. I know what my father expects. What the family tradition demands.
I stand at the window and watch the first light touch the mountains. My wife sleeps in our bed, marked forever as Bishop property, and in a few days, Roman expects me to claim her publicly, with the family watching. A final violation that will break something in her I’m not sure can be repaired. There’s only so much I’m willing to ask her to endure, only so much I can bear.
I quietly pull on my clothes and boots. There’s ranch work to do, fence lines to check, cattle to move. Work to keep my hands busy while my mind tries to find a way out of this trap I’ve built around us both.
“You’re leaving?” Saint’s voice is still rough with sleep.
I turn, and she’s watching me with those deep, dark eyes. She’s wearing one of my shirts, collar wide enough to slip off her shoulder, revealing a stretch of skin I want to mark with my teeth.
“Just for a few hours. Need to check the upper pasture. How do you feel?”
“Better.” She sits up, the movement more fluid than it was a few days ago when every shift brought a wince of pain. “The ache’s still there, but it’s duller now. Manageable.”
