Saint shifts on the bed, dragging my attention back to her. I’m tempted to go to her and offer whatever little bit of comfort I can, but I don’t. She needs this moment to grieve what she lost. Because while all of this was done to keep her alive, it’s not just about that anymore.
When her father signed his name on that license, she became mine.
Until death do us part. It’s selfish, but when she said, "I got what I wanted," she was right.
I’ve wanted to claim her for damn near a year now, and now that I have, something is fulfilling about the moment. This isn’t the way I would’ve made Saint my wife, if given the chance, but she’smy wife, and that’s all that matters.
Calder
The cabin wakesbefore I do, creaking timber settling in the mountain cold.
The wind is testing the shutters, early light filtering through gaps in the curtains like pale fingers reaching for warmth. I’m on my feet before full consciousness catches up, hand already on the knife I keep within reach.
Old habits die hard.
Roman drilled them into my skull so deep they’ve become reflex rather than thought.
I glance over at Saint, who is still asleep on the bed, curled tight against the blankets like she’s trying to disappear into them. The ring on her finger catches in the morning light, foreign and permanent.My wife.I knew I’d get married someday, but I never thought it would be to Saint James. I pull on yesterday’s clothes and step outside into the air. It’s so crisp it stings.
The land stretches before me, pine forests climbing toward granite peaks, the creek below cutting silver through dark earth, morning mist clinging to the valley like something alive. This place has always felt more honest than any church. No pretensehere. Just survival, adaptation, the quiet violence of nature doing what it does.
Restocking the woodpile will give me time to gather my thoughts. I split logs until my shoulders burn, the rhythmic crack of the axe a meditation. Physical work silences the noise in my head, the guilt, the want, the knowledge that I’ve trapped something beautiful and wild in a cage barely bigger than a grave.
After a bit, I head back inside and find Saint awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands like they belong to someone else.
“Morning,” I say, setting the wood by the hearth.
She doesn’t respond. Just stares up at me with those blue eyes that have gone flat as river stones. Three days in, and I’ve already broken something essential in her. I make coffee, strong and bitter, and pour two cups.
I set one cup on the small table near the bed. She doesn’t move to grab it at all. I’m not sure why, but it irritates me.
“You need to eat.” I pull bread from the cabinet, slice it thick. “And drink something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter. Eat anyway.”
Her jaw tightens. For a second, I think she’ll fight me on it, and part of me hopes she will. Anger would be better than this hollow compliance. But she just takes the bread I offer, tears off small pieces, and forces them down mechanically.
I watch her eat, then turn my attention to the fire. The cabin’s warm enough now, heat pushing back the mountain chill.
“I feel like I’m disappearing.”
The honesty catches me off guard. I look at her, really look, and I recognize the behavior. I’ve seen it a million times before. She’s folding in on herself, losing color and shape. I need to gether out of this cabin. Get her out into nature, at least for a little bit.
“Get dressed,” I say, standing. “We’re going out.”
Her eyes widen. “Out where?”
“Not far. Just around the property. You need air,” I say, quickly throwing together some sandwiches and supplies.
Suspicion tightens her features. “Why?”
“Because if you stay in this cabin one more day staring at these walls, you’re going to lose your mind.” I grab my jacket from the hook. “Plus, I need to check the fence line on the north pasture.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking the perimeter of the upper grazing land, where the property opens to a snow-covered meadow before climbing toward the peaks. The grass here is different from down in the valley, shorter, tougher, shot through with wildflowers usually, if the snow weren’t blanketing them. Saint walks behind me, silent, her borrowed jacket too big across the shoulders.
The fence line runs for nearly a mile, barbed wire strung between weathered posts that my grandfather planted forty years ago. Some of the posts are rotting at the base, and the wire is sagging where elk or deer have pushed through. I stop at the first weak section and test the tension.
