Tomorrow night, they’re going to brand me. Going to mark me as Bishop property the same way they mark cattle. And after that, after I’ve healed enough to move, they’ll force me into some twisted wedding ceremony. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and finally let myself break. Not crying, I’m too numb for tears. Just sitting there on the floor while the Montana sun slants through the windows and reality crashes over me in waves.
Elena Bishop has survived thirty years of this.
Can I do the same?
Part of me is afraid that tomorrow will break something inside me that can’t ever be fixed. I can either wallow in pity or face the darkness head-on. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. Bad things happen to good people all the time. I can’t change what is going to happen. I can only change my reaction.
Eventually, I pull myself together. My legs are shaky when I stand, and it feels like they might give out on me at any moment.Do something, Saint.Anything. Remind yourself who you are. Find something that you have control over.
That’s when I see the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen.
It’s probably stocked by whoever furnished this house and filled with expensive stuff that the Bishops think nothing of keeping around. I cross the room and open it. There are rows upon rows of liquor and bourbon.
Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Gin.
I reach for the whiskey, the good kind, amber liquid in a heavy crystal bottle. I pour myself a glass and let the burn warm me from the inside out.
One glass becomes two.
Two becomes three.
Somewhere around the fourth glass, I decide that if I’m going to be branded tomorrow night, if I’m going to carry Roman Bishop’s mark on my hip for the rest of my life, then I might as well make one meal that’s completely mine.
One thing in this house that I chose. That I created.
I start pulling ingredients from the kitchen cabinets. I’ll need to figure out who stocked the house so I can thank them. Everything is here. Flour, eggs, butter, vegetables, chicken in the freezer. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from years of helping my father with church dinners, from the baking I used to do when life was simple, and the worst thing I had to worry about was whether my cookies would turn out right.
The whiskey makes everything feel distant. Soft around the edges. Less real.
I’m rolling out dough for biscuits when I realize I’m crying. Not sobbing. Just tears sliding down my cheeks while my hands keep working, keep kneading, keep creating something out of nothing.
Tomorrow night, Roman will destroy something in me.
But tonight, I’m going to make biscuits.
Tonight, I’m going to cook a meal in this kitchen that’s supposed to be mine.
Tonight, I’m going to drink enough whiskey to stop feeling the weight of what’s coming.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to survive what tomorrow brings.
Elena’s words echo in my head: “Find something to focus on. A memory. A prayer. Something that belongs to you and only you.”
I pour another glass of whiskey and keep cooking. Letting the anger simmer under the surface just like the pots on the stove.
Calder
All I can thinkabout when I get home Sunday night is food and falling face-first into my pillow. That is until I enter the house.
The scent of roasted chicken and herbs catches me first, warm and domestic, the kind of smell that belongs in someone else’s life.
Closing the front door, I creep into the kitchen and breathe a sigh of relief when I find Saint at the counter. Relief turns into worry when I spot the glass in her hand, and the vacant way she stares into the void. What the hell happened after I left?
She’s changed her clothing since I saw her earlier this afternoon. Now she’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that make her look more like a domesticated housewife. I’m not sure why, but that causes an uncomfortable ache in my chest. I don’t want her to change, to lose what makes her Saint. Strands of honey-blond have escaped the bun she has in her hair and hang loosely, framing her face in messy waves.
Beautiful.
A bottle of Maker’s Mark sits on the counter beside her.Shit.
