His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, some of the anger has drained from his voice, replaced by what almost sounds like fear.
“The point is that I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are. There are things happening, things you don’t know about, and I need you safe until they’re resolved. I can’t lose you, Saint. Not now. Not after everything.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and unexpected.
“You won’t lose me, but don’t lock me away,” I say softly. “Trust me enough to let me live. To let me be more than just something you’re trying to keep alive.”
He doesn’t reply, but when his hand leaves the steering wheel to find mine, his fingers threading through mine with surprising gentleness, I know we’re closer than we have been. The ranch appears ahead of us, and with it, the reality of whatever comes next. But for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like a prisoner returning to her cell.
I feel like a woman coming home.
And despite the trouble I’m undoubtedly in, despite the anger still simmering in Calder’s eyes and the questions still unanswered between us, I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment of this afternoon.
Some things are worth the consequences.
Saint
The scaron my hip itches like it knows something’s wrong.
It’s been healing well enough, pink and tender instead of angry red, but I still catch myself absently scratching at the edges of the brand through my pants. A permanent reminder etched into my skin. Lately, it’s starting to feel more like a bull’s-eye than a brand.
The house is quiet this morning. Calder’s been gone since sunrise, handling ranch business with his brothers that he was vague about. He’s been elusive about a lot of things lately, disappearing for hours, holding hushed conversations on the porch when he thinks I can’t hear. Something’s brewing, and he doesn’t want me involved. I’ve been up since he left.
I move to the kitchen window, looking out at the mountains. The sky hangs heavy with clouds, threatening rain, matching my mood. The ceremony is coming. The one Elena warned me about. The “consummation” that makes my stomach twist into knots. The one that hopefully spells the end of Roman’s tyranny. A dark part of my soul revels in that thought, and I shake my head, then fold my hands. No. I won’t let the darkness in this family swallow me whole. I’ll be the light.
The sound of tires on gravel cuts through the silence and my prayer. I tense, moving away from the window. Calder has been texting before he comes home. And that engine doesn’t sound like his truck—rougher, louder. It hits me in a flash . . . home. I am starting to think of this place as my home. I don’t know if that makes my stomach turn or not.
I peer carefully around the edge of the curtain. A truck I don’t recognize pulls to a stop, dust settling around it. The driver’s door swings open, and a man climbs out. I try to think if I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him. He’s broader than Calder but shorter, with a sheepskin coat despite the mild weather. My pulse picks up. It seems like every time someone comes over, bad things happen.
And judging by the unsteady way he walks toward the house, he’s been drinking.
I step back, mind racing. I could hide, but would he believe a non-answer and go away?
A heavy knock on the door makes the decision for me.
“Anyone home?” The man’s voice is gruff, slurred around the edges. “Bishop? Need to talk to you.”
I take a deep breath. I know that voice. From the night at my house. The night everything changed.
Shit. Does that mean he works with Calder? Adrenaline spikes through me, but I’m a Bishop now too, whether I like it or not. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time here, it’s that showing fear only makes things worse.
I open the door just enough to see through, keeping my body behind it as a shield. Hoping . . . maybe stupidly, that the Bishop name can be used in a beneficial way for me.
“Sir.” I keep my voice steady, cooler than I feel. “Calder’s not here.”
His eyes narrow, something shifting in his expression that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“Well, if it isn’t the preacher’s daughter herself.” He leans against the doorframe, too close, the smell of whiskey wafting from him. “All decked out as a Bishop now. I’m Wayne, by the way.”
I ignore the introduction. “Calder will be back soon. You can wait for him in your truck.”
He laughs, a harsh sound with no humor. “That’s cute. You think you get to tell me what to do? I’ve been here far longer than you, little lady.” He turns his head enough to spit out a black stream right onto the wood of the porch.Gross.
“I’m telling you Calder’s not here.”
