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)
Whose shirt is this?
I would never wear someone else’s shirt, especially a man’s. I sniff the collar, and the distinct masculine scent of leather and cedar hits me as hard as it did the first time I smelled him, when I was seventeen pressed against his chest while he carried me to his truck.
Calder.
The bare skin of my legs brushes against the flannel sheets, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, and I recognize the quilt that’s partially covering me.
How did it get here?
The sight of it makes my chest tighten with longing and fear. It’s one my mother made before she passed. She’d worked on the familiar stitching pattern for months while sitting in her favorite chair by the window.
Where am I? Why am I wearing Calder’s clothes?
The questions spiral out of control, each one more terrifying than the last.
This makes no sense. I would never wear his clothes. Never let him undress me. The realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water, and panic twists in my gut. What if I did something unforgivable—or worse, what if something was done to me? The thought claws through me: that I might’ve lost my virginity to Calder, or worse, some stranger, while I was unconscious, powerless to stop them.
I press a trembling hand to my stomach, then lower—searching, checking, desperate for proof that nothing’s wrong. There’s no ache between my thighs, no sting or tenderness, no trace of blood that I can see.
The relief I feel makes me dizzy, but it’s short-lived.
Because if that didn’t happen, what the hell did?
I roll over carefully, and the chain on the handcuff rattles against the metal bedframe.
The movement gives me another angle on the space, and I discover a protein bar and a water bottle on the table beside the bed.
It’s almost like whoever brought me here—Calder himself?—knew that I would wake up thirsty and hungry. Think, Saint. Think about what you were doing. Fragmented memories, and images flash in my mind, playing like a horror movie I can’t turn off.
I was baking cookies, and the kitchen was warm and safe.
I had flour on my hands, and vanilla clung to the air.
Home. Safe.
And then…
There was a knock on the door. Sharp raps that cut through the quiet night.
I can’t breathe.
The image of the wounded man stumbling onto my porch, his blood seeping between his fingers, and the desperation in his eyes. It flashes in my mind all in a rush.
Blood. There was so much blood pooling on the weathered boards, spreading like spilled wine. He was there too. Calder Bishop. The devil in physical form, standing over the man’s crumpled body, a knife in his hand dripping red.
There’s a crack in my chest at the reminder of the way he looked at me with those icy-blue eyes, cold as a winter lake, empty of mercy or hesitation. They said everything he needed to say without speaking a single word.
I’m here because of him. He kidnapped me. Chased me through my own house like prey. He must’ve knocked me out when I begged him not to kill me. The memory of spots in my vision pops up, but it’s all I can remember until now.
“This isn’t real. It can’t be,” I whisper to the empty room. I give the handcuff another desperate tug, harder this time, ignoring the bite of metal against my wrist. “Please, please let this be a terrible nightmare.”
Except I know it’s not.
The ache in my wrist is too sharp, too real. The fear coursing through my veins like liquid fire is too visceral to be imagined. The danger I know I’m in presses down on my chest like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe.
This is real, all of it.
Why am I here? Where am I? What is he going to do with me?
His family owns land all over the county. I could be hidden anywhere. However, it’s probably somewhere deep in the woods, a place where no one will be able to hear me scream. I think of all the terrible things I’ve heard about the Bishops. The rumors about murder, death, and crime. Before, I found it hard to believe, but after last night... seeing Calder with that knife in his hand.
The Bishops are dangerous, and I’m as good as dead.
That reminder only makes my thoughts run out of control like a wild horse.
What does he want with me?
Is he going to kill me? Keep me here forever? Torture me?
The possibilities are endless, each more terrifying as the options flip through my mind like an old slide show. Logic tells me that if he went through all this trouble, he might think I’m more useful to him alive than dead. Otherwise, why bring me all the way into the middle of nowhere and chain me up? Even logic can’t ease my worry.