She glances over her shoulder. “I found pasta and sauce in the cupboard. It’s nothing fancy.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs, turning back to the pot. “I wanted to. I was bored after exploring every inch of this place.”
I move to stand behind her, close enough to smell the floral scent of her shampoo. “And what did you think?”
“Of the apartment?” She stirs the sauce thoughtfully. “It’s nice. Impersonal, but nice. No family photos. No personal touches. Just like your house back in Black Hollow Creek.” She pauses. “Our house, I guess.”
The correction catches me off guard. “You still want to go out for dinner? We can leave this for tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “I already started. Besides, I thought maybe we could just… stay in. Talk.”
“Talk?” The word comes out more skeptical than I intend.
She turns, wooden spoon in hand, blue eyes serious. “Yes, Calder. Talk. Like normal people do. Without threats or violence or sex that we both pretend is just about control.”
The directness throws me. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything. Everything. This life we’re living that neither of us chose but both of us are stuck with.” She gestures with the spoon. “Set the table. The pasta’s almost done.”
We eat at the small dining table, the city lights sparkling as dusk falls. The pasta is simple but good, the sauce rich with garlic and herbs.
“You never talk about your mother,” Saint says after we’ve eaten in silence for a few minutes. “Elena, I mean.”
The question comes out of nowhere, catching me with my guard down. “What’s there to say? She’s Roman’s wife.”
“She’s yourmother. She carried you for nine months. Raised you.” Saint twirls pasta around her fork. “But she might as well be a ghost in that house.”
I take a sip of water, buying time. “My mother checked out a long time ago. Can’t really blame her. Living with Roman would break anyone.”
I consider her question and stop dead as I pick the fork back up. My mother is as much of a victim in all this as I am, as we all are. Her checking out is my version of protecting Saint. She’s Roman’s favorite punching bag for a reason.
“It didn’t break you. Didn’t break your brothers.”
Her words draw me out of my head. “We’re different.” I set my glass down carefully. “We were raised to be weapons, not victims.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, fork abandoned beside her plate. “Will you tell me what to expect? Please? I’d rather know than imagine.”
I don’t need to ask what she is talking about and owe her that much, at least. The truth about what’s coming. But the words stick in my throat, caught behind years of Bishop loyalty and secret keeping. I’ve never seen it firsthand, obviously being the oldest of my brothers, but my father told me what would happen once I found a bride, back when I was a teenager.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she presses. “Something big.”
I stand, gathering our plates. “You wanted to talk about normal things. This isn’t normal.”
“Nothing about our life is normal, Calder.” She follows me to the kitchen. “But something is happening. Something beyond the ceremonies and Roman’s control. I’ve seen it in your face when you think I’m not looking. I’ve heard your whispered phone calls on the porch.”
I set the plates in the sink with more force than necessary. “Drop it, Saint.”
“Is it about Wayne? About what I did?” Her voice drops. “Are you in trouble because of me?”
“No.” I turn to face her. “Wayne was a loose end I should have handled a long time ago. You did what you had to do.”
“Then what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
The desperation in her voice tears at something inside me. She deserves the truth. But telling her puts everything at risk.
“I can’t.” The words come out harsher than intended. “Not yet.”
