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)
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. Whatever plan 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.”
He straightens, finally meeting my eyes. “You’re right. So I’ll ask instead. Will you hear me out?” I’m a little shocked by the sudden change. I expected commands, expected him to simply tell me how things were going to be. This is different, and I’m not sure if I should be grateful or concerned.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice, Saint. That’s what this is about.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity.
“I didn’t choose to be here. I didn’t choose to witness a murder. I didn’t choose to be kidnapped and chained up like an animal. Where were my choices in any of that?”
“You’re right. You didn’t choose this.” Guilt flashes in his eyes. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m sorry. That you didn’t get a choice, but this is where we are right now. I can’t go back in time and change what happened. I’m trying to find a way forward, a way that keeps you alive. That has to count for something.”
“A way that keeps me alive? Why bother? So I can be your prisoner forever?”
“No.” He pulls out the chair from the small table and sits, the movement weary. “So you can have a life. Freedom. Protection.”
I should feel hope, should feel anything other than the despair I’m coursing through my body, but I don’t because I know better. What he’s offering me is a false sense of freedom.
The real truth is that as long as he’s in my life, freedom will cease to exist.
“What’s your plan?” I ask finally, because what else can I say?
Calder leans forward, elbows on his knees, those winter-blue eyes intense on mine. “Marriage.”
I blink slowly trying to decipher what he’s said, because I’m certain I must’ve misheard him. Marriage? That can’t be what he just suggested.
“What?”
“I understand that it’s not the best option, and I know you aren’t going to like it. But logically, if we get married, and you become a Bishop, that gives you the level of protection we need to survive this.”
All I can do is stare at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for him to tell me he’s joking because he can’t actually be serious. Except Calder isn’t smiling. There isn’t even the slightest hint of humor in his eyes. His expression is serious, almost earnest.