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)
What the hell is he doing? I can breathe, but everything is foggy now.
“Shhhh. Don’t fight. It’ll be easier this way,” he says from somewhere above me.
My forehead pounds with the beat of my heart, faster and faster, harder and harder. Until everything shifts, and the pressure becomes unbearable.
Calder stares into my eyes, watching as I slip away, his face a mask of unreadable emotion. Right before I fall into the abyss, I swear I hear him say, “You’re mine now, Saint.”
Calder
Saint doesn’t struggle long. Not when her blood circulation is cut off.
Why didn’t I do it? I’m disgusted with myself. Snapping her neck would’ve been quick and painless. I had my emotions locked down, my feelings pushed to the back of my mind.
It would have been so easy.
I was ready to make peace with the fact that I would never get the chance to claim her, then she started begging, and the second she said my name… fuck.
I lost it. I caved. I knew I couldn’t do it.
Dammit. Now I have to figure out how I’m going to pull this off under Wayne’s nose.
Get a girl who clearly isn’t dead out of the house, and convince the man I’m working with to let me bury her elsewhere. I’m not a liar, and I’m just as loyal to the Bishop name as he is, but if anyone has the power to test my loyalty to the family, it’s Saint.
Adjusting my grip on her, I take her limp form into my arms, bridal style. She’s light compared to the hay bales we toss regularly. Strands of honey-blond hair stick to her tearstained cheeks, her skin is pale, and she looks so innocent and at peace, though one look at her face and no one could mistake her for dead.
Fuck, what do I do?
End it.
There’s still time. One twist of my wrist and the problem’s solved. As if it were that easy. My fingers don’t move, and the thought makes me irrationally angry.
Frustration spikes hot and bitter in my veins. Keeping her alive is the stupidest thing I’ve done in years, and I know it.
She’s a risk, a witness, a liability I should’ve silenced on the porch beside Martin. Yet here she is, her breath ghosting against my collarbone, binding me tighter with every second I hesitate. The smell of copper and pine clings to her from my body, but there’s an undercurrent of something floral or sweet that lingers on her skin.
Wayne’s voice rips through the quiet of the night, startling me. “Calder! We need to move, now. You hear me? This ain’t clean!”
Don’t I know it? Martin’s corpse is cooling on the porch, there’s blood where there shouldn’t be blood, and I’m inside the preacher’s house holding the very thing I’m supposed to bury. My father would lose his shit if he knew about this.
I can already hear his voice in my ear and feel his fist against my jaw.
Shaking away the guilt, I walk over to the sofa and place Saint down on the cushions. Wrapping her in a blanket will make it less noticeable that she’s alive. I rip the quilt off the back of the sofa and wrap her in it, tight, until she looks small and still—more like a body instead of a living, breathing girl. Then I scoop her back up and step out onto the porch.
Wayne stops mid-step, his forehead crumpled, his fists clenched. “This is a fucking mess, Calder. A mess. We’ve got blood everywhere, a witness, and—”
“Don’t fucking worry about it. I took care of the witness. Now we just need to dispose of the bodies,” I interject, stopping him before he can go on a full downward spiral.
His gaze darts to the blanket that Saint is wrapped in, and I grit my teeth to stop myself from lashing out at him.
Can he tell she’s alive? If he calls my bluff, I’ll have to do something drastic. Like actually kill her. Or him.
“What did you do to her?”
“Does it matter?”
He scratches at the back of his head. “No, but I need to know so I can send someone to clean the house, if necessary.”
“Seriously, Wayne.” I shake my head at him. Sometimes I wonder how he’s made it so far in life. “I didn’t slit her throat. She’s five pounds soaking wet. I just snapped her neck.”
It’s clear he’s as overwhelmed by the situation as I am, but overthinking it doesn’t change what we need to do. “Jesus Christ, Calder. Martin slipping loose, the girl, and now two things we need to take care of. Roman’s gonna—”
“Relax.” That’s all I say.
Wayne stares incredulously. “Are you kidding me? There’s no time to relax. We’re fucked.”
“I said to relax, and I fucking mean it.” My words cut sharp, and he halts mid-step toward me. I shift the bundle in my arms and layer the famous Bishop temper into my tone. “It’s fucking done. Now we clean this shit up and get back to ranch business.”