I groan internally and blink a couple more times, giving my vision a moment to adjust. I think maybe I’m seeing things because the ceiling above me is rough-hewn wood, with dark beams that crisscross overhead.
These aren’t the smooth white plaster walls of my bedroom.
A bubble of panic and confusion forms in my gut.Where am I?
Every muscle aches, like I was run over by a truck, and my mouth is drier than the cookies Mrs. Mills forces on us at church every Sunday. I need some water.
My brain is mush, my thoughts moving as slow as molasses. There’s a fog lingering in my head, thick and suffocating, making it hard for me to think, to remember, to understand what’s happening.
Where am I?
Turning, I try to get a better look at my surroundings and groan as the muscles in my neck protest. I’m still confused and unsure of where I am and how I got here. All I know is that I’m not at home or at a retreat with my father.
I lift my arms above my head to stretch, and one of them jerks to a stop mid-motion.
What the hell?I tilt my head back into the pillow and discover the source of my immobility—my right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bedframe.
This isn’t real.I try to tug my arm away, but that only makes the cuff dig into my skin. The cold steel is unyielding against my frantic pulls.
Why am I handcuffed to the bed?
Fear creeps up my throat.Relax. Calm down.I know panicking isn’t productive, but I can’t help it. I push through the fog, sorting my thoughts, searching through them like scattered puzzle pieces, trying to decipher how I got here.
The longer I think and come up with no answer, the heavier my chest feels. I try to recall anything that might give me a clue before I turn outward to my surroundings, looking for the same. My gaze drops to my chest and legs. My legs are bare, while my upper body is covered with an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt. A quilt is wrapped and twisted at my feet.
Whose shirt is this?
I would never wear someone else’s shirt, especially a man’s. I sniff the collar, and the distinct masculine scent of leather and cedar hits me as hard as it did the first time I smelled him, when I was seventeen pressed against his chest while he carried me to his truck.
Calder.
The bare skin of my legs brushes against the flannel sheets, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, and I recognize the quilt that’s partially covering me.
How did it get here?
The sight of it makes my chest tighten with longing and fear. It’s one my mother made before she passed. She’d worked on the familiar stitching pattern for months while sitting in her favorite chair by the window.
Where am I? Why am I wearing Calder’s clothes?
The questions spiral out of control, each one more terrifying than the last.
This makes no sense. I would never wear his clothes. Never let him undress me. The realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water, and panic twists in my gut. What if I did something unforgivable—or worse, what if something was done to me? The thought claws through me: that I might’ve lost my virginity to Calder, or worse, some stranger, while I was unconscious, powerless to stop them.
I press a trembling hand to my stomach, then lower—searching, checking, desperate for proof that nothing’s wrong. There’s no ache between my thighs, no sting or tenderness, no trace of blood that I can see.
The relief I feel makes me dizzy, but it’s short-lived.
Because if that didn’t happen, what the hell did?
I roll over carefully, and the chain on the handcuff rattles against the metal bedframe.
The movement gives me another angle on the space, and I discover a protein bar and a water bottle on the table beside the bed.
It’s almost like whoever brought me here—Calder himself?—knew that I would wake up thirsty and hungry.Think, Saint. Think about what you were doing. Fragmented memories, and images flash in my mind, playing like a horror movie I can’t turn off.
I was baking cookies, and the kitchen was warm and safe.
I had flour on my hands, and vanilla clung to the air.
