“If it does,” Sawyer adds quietly, “we were never here, and never had this conversation.”
“Agreed.” I nod.
“Alright, I have shit to do. I’m out.” Kade gives a half-wave and heads to his truck to leave.
“Same. Dad’s got me working on a bunch of new shit.” Sawyer gives me a slap on the back. “You’ve got this, brother.”
I don’t tell him it doesn’t feel like it, that I’m terrified of the what-if.
It’s just Levi and me left, and we start toward our vehicles, and he falls into step beside me. “Not to make this any more difficult for you, since I know the pressure is already on, but you’ll need to be convincing. Real convincing. Dad will be watching, and any missteps may give you away. This whole marriage thing needs to be concrete as hell.”
“You act like I don’t know any of this. It won’t be a problem. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure Saint gets through this in one piece.”
Levi’s lips curve into a smile. “Holy shit. I think Sawyer is right. I never thought I’d see the day you’d defy Dad for a girl. She must be important to you.” I don’t answer, and that only encourages him to continue. He bumps his shoulder into mine. “The iceman has a heart after all. No worries, brother. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Don’t push it, Levi.”
“Oh, I’m going to do so much more than push it.” He winks before climbing into his Jeep. I don’t even care what kind of shit he stirs up. Hopefully, it’s good enough to convince our father. I climb into my truck and start it up, turning out of the parking lot to head back to the cabin.
As I drive, his words echo in my mind.
Your secret’s safe with me.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. This has to work.It will work.I’ve committed my brothers to this path, risking their lives.
All for a woman who might still refuse me.
The truth is, even knowing what I know now, the danger, the circumstances. I’d do it all again. I’d risk everything for the chance to keep her safe. The truth of that thought should terrify me. It doesn’t. Instead, it feels like the first truthful thing I’ve done in years.
Saint
The cabin feelsdifferent in the evening light. Warmer somehow, though that might be because of the fire Calder built earlier. I’m still on the bed where he placed me after our confrontation yesterday, still wrapped in the quilt my mother made, still trying to process everything that’s happened since that terrible night he kidnapped me. At least I’m not still chained up like a dog.
His words from yesterday echo in my head, mixing with the memory of his hands on me—gentle when bandaging my wrist, devastating when touching me in ways I’d never been touched before. Ways that made me come apart while hating myself for wanting it.
I touch my bandaged wrist absently, remembering how carefully he’d cleaned the raw skin. How those same hands had killed Martin Everett. Had choked me and brought me here. The same hands that made me feel things I shouldn’t feel for my captor.
What is wrong with me?How can I hate someone and still respond to their touch like that? How can I be terrified of someone and still feel drawn to them?
Maybe I’m broken. Maybe being kidnapped breaks something fundamental inside you, makes you confuse your captor for your savior. Or maybe—and this thought is more terrifying— perhaps I was already broken.
I’ve been drawn to Calder Bishop for longer than I care to admit. Since he took me to the hospital when I was seventeen. Since I saw him do small bits of kindness around town that didn’t match the rumors I heard about his family. Since I kissed him on my eighteenth birthday and he pushed me away for my own good.
God, what does it say about me for trying to rationalize this? That I’m searching for reasons my attraction to him might be okay?
A sound from outside draws my attention. I peek out the door’s window, craning my neck to see better so I don’t have to get out of the quilt and freeze. Calder’s getting out of his truck, his tall frame silhouetted against the darkening sky.
I study him the way I never could when he’s looking at me. Without those cold blue eyes pinning me in place, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he runs a hand through his dark hair in what might be frustration or stress. He looks... tired.Burdened.
I remind myself that it doesn’t make him a good man. Doesn’t make what he’s done to me okay. My heart pounds harder as his boots echo on the porch steps. The door opens, and he enters, bringing cold air and the scent of pine with him.
“Saint.” His voice is careful, controlled. Like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
I don’t respond, just watch him close the door and move to the hearth to add more logs. The fire flares brighter, casting dancing shadows across the rough cabin walls. My pulse jumps into my throat when he turns toward me.This is it.Whateverplan he’s devised, whatever fate he’s decided for me—I’m about to hear it.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“You keep saying that. But talking implies a conversation, not you telling me what’s going to happen to me.”
