Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
When I exit, Calder is still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with those all-seeing eyes that miss nothing, that catalog every wince, stumble, and tremble of pain.
“You should rest,” he says, his voice gentle in a way that makes my throat tight. “Let the pills work.”
I climb back into bed, and he adjusts the pillows behind me, propping me up so I’m half-sitting, and the gesture is almost tender in a way that makes me want to cry or scream or both.
“How long before it heals?” I ask, needing to know, needing to understand the timeline of this new hell I’m living in.
“A few weeks. Maybe a month before the worst of it is over.”
“And then the ceremony,” I say, making myself acknowledge it out loud, making myself face the next horror that’s waiting on the other side of recovery. “The one Elena warned me about.”
His jaw tightens and I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin. “We don’t have to talk about that right now.”
“When do we talk about it? When it’s happening? When it’s too late to prepare for whatever fresh hell your family has planned?”
“Saint—”
“I have a right to know what’s coming.” My voice is steadier than I feel, stronger than I have any right to be, given that I can barely sit up without wanting to pass out. “I need to know what else is going to happen.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he’s looking for something. What does he see? The preacher’s daughter I used to be, or the broken thing I’m becoming under the weight of the Bishop cruelty.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says finally. “You need to heal first. Focus on that. Saint, look, I can’t tell you everything. Not yet. But please know, in a couple of weeks, when my father calls for that ceremony, I’m not going to let it happen.”
“What does that mean?” I whisper, a dull blip of hope in my heart.
He gulps hard and ducks his head in an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. “I can’t lose you, Saint, not like this. If you can’t handle me . . . that’s one thing. But I’m not losing the chance of what we have here because of my asshole father.”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Lie here, heal, and I’ll tell you more when I can.”
Focus on healing. As if that’s all there is, as if I can just rest and recover and everything will be fine, as if another horror isn’t waiting on the other side of recovery like a predator in the shadows. But he’s right in a way. I need to heal, need to survive this first before I can worry about what comes next, need to take it one day at a time, or I’ll go insane thinking about all the ways his family can hurt me. If they might hurt me? The idea of no longer having to face any more horror eases something inside me.
The pills start working, their warmth spreading through my veins like honey, and the edges of the pain soften, becoming bearable, manageable. My breathing evens out, and the room stops spinning quite so violently, leaving me floating in this strange in-between space where everything feels distant and unreal.
I should hate him. Should despise every inch of the man who brought me here, who forced me to marry him against my will, and who stood by while his father branded me like livestock. But I don’t, and that’s the worst part, that’s the thing that terrifies me more than the pain or the brand or the knowledge of what’s still coming. I don’t hate him.
Instead, I find myself watching him, noting the way he moves around the room with that predator’s grace, the careful way he handles the medical supplies like they’re precious, the concern in his eyes when he looks at me like I’m something worth protecting instead of something he’s destroyed.
“Why are you being so careful?” I ask, the pills making me loose, making the words come easier than they should. “With me. Why bother when there’s always something else?”
“Because you’re hurt. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“I’m always going to be hurt.” I gesture vaguely at my hip, at the brand beneath the bandage that I still can’t bring myself to look at directly. “That’s what this is. That’s what being a Bishop wife means. So why does it matter how gentle you are now?”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something raw and honest breaking through the careful control he always maintains. “Because this isn’t just about the family or protecting myself anymore. I’m never going to let anyone else hurt you again.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous and full of implications I’m not ready to examine too closely.