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)
The idea of having a child together gives me a sliver of hope that there might be a future for us after all. Before that can happen, we have to get through tonight.
Calder
The sun sits low when I find her in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap. She’s changed into one of the soft cotton shirts I bought her. Dark olive. The color makes her eyes look like storm clouds.
I hate that she doesn’t even look my way when I walk in.
“It’s time,” I say.
Her hands twist together. Fingers lacing and unlacing. “I know.”
I move to the dresser and pull out one of my button-downs. A navy flannel soft enough not to irritate the skin and a loose pair of shorts.
“Put these on.”
She takes them without arguing and disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. The quiet sound of her breathing. When she comes out, I notice my shirt hangs off her frame, the sleeves too long.
She looks young. Fragile.
I hate it.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand.
She stares at it for a long moment then takes it. Her palm is cold, and her pulse hammers against my fingers.
The walk to the truck feels like miles. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. Just climbs into the passenger seat when I open the door and stares through the windshield at the barn in the distance.
I get behind the wheel but don’t start the engine.
The pill bottle sits in my pocket. I’ve been carrying it since this morning. Oxycodone. Strong enough to take the edge off. Not strong enough to erase what’s coming.
I pull out the bottle and shake two pills into my palm.
“Here.” I hold it out to her.
She looks at the pills. At me. Then back to the pills.
“What is it?”
“Pain medication. It’ll help.”
“Help with what? The pain or the memory?”
Fair question. “Both.”
She doesn’t take it. Just keeps staring at my open palm like it’s a snake about to strike.
“I don’t want it,” she says, finally.
“Saint—”
“No. I said I don’t want it.”
Her voice is quiet but firm. The same tone she used with her father this morning. The tone that says she’s made up her mind and nothing I say will change it. It would be better to let it go, to respect her decision, but I can’t.
“There’s no need to act brave. No one will judge you, least of all me, for taking something to help with the pain.”
“I’m not acting brave, and I don’t care if you judge me.” Turning, she looks at me, defiance flickering in her eyes. “If I’m going to carry this mark for the rest of my life, I want to remember every second of how I got it. I don’t want drugs making it fuzzy. Making it easier.”
“Easier is the point.”
“Not for me.” She looks back toward the barn. “If this is what it takes to keep us alive, then I want to feel it. All of it. Need to know exactly what your family is.”
The words land like a fist to the gut.
Because she’s right. This is what my family is. Medieval cruelty dressed up as tradition. And I’m about to let it happen to the one person I’ve been trying to protect.
“Saint—”
“Let’s just go.” She reaches for the seat belt. “Get it over with.”
I grab her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.
“You take the pills, or we sit here until you do.”
She turns back to me. Jaw set. Eyes blazing.
“You can’t make me.”
“I can.” I hold up the pills between us. “And we both know that I will.”
We stare at each other. Two stubborn people locked in a battle neither of us can win.
Then she laughs.
Not a happy sound. Something bitter and sharp cutting through the truck cab.
“So this is how it works,” she says. “You give me choices that aren’t really choices. Make me think I have control when I don’t.”
“This isn’t a choice. This is me trying to make something horrible slightly less horrible.”
“By forcing me to take drugs I don’t want?”
“By keeping you from screaming so loud you rupture something.” The words come out harsh. Honest. “By keeping you from thrashing so hard, you make the brand blur. By giving you one small mercy in a situation that has none.” Her expression shifts, and with it, some of the fight drains away. “I can’t stop this from happening, but I can make it easier. I can protect you a little bit. Let me do that for you, Saint.”
“How bad is it?” she asks quietly.
The last thing I want to do is scare her more than she already is, but there’s no lying to her either. “Bad. Bad enough that I know you’ll need it. So please take the pills.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she takes them from my palm, puts them on her tongue, and swallows them dry.