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 do you mean?” I try my best to hide the fear in my voice but if he doesn’t have a plan then…. I try not to think about what that might mean.
“I mean, I’m working on it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just don’t worry about it. When I have a solution that doesn’t put both of us in a shallow grave, I’ll let you know. Until then, focus on yourself.”
Something in my chest cracks and the words erupt out of me. “I can’t just worry about myself. I want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes.”
Calder stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “This isn’t about what you want anymore. It’s about survival.”
He moves to the window, staring out at the trees, his back to me. The afternoon light cuts across his profile, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. It’s clear he’s frustrated and angry. Is it me making him like that, or is it something else?
“Please,” I whisper. “Please just tell me what you want from me. Why am I here? What are you planning to do?”
“I already told you. I’m figuring it out.”
“That’s not good enough. I need an answer.”
He whirls on me, anger flashing in his eyes. “There is no answer for me to give you, Saint. You’re acting like I had this all planned out. I didn’t want you involved. I didn’t want you to open that door, but you did. I can’t go back in time. I can’t save you from the consequences. What’s done, is done. Now we’re both fucked, so excuse me if I don’t have a perfect solution at this very moment to hand you on a silver platter! My choices were to kill you or take you.”
Tears burn my eyes and when I blink they slip down my cheeks. There is no answer. No solution. I’m trapped. I refuse to accept that reality, refuse to acknowledge it. Instead, I push his response to the back of my mind.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell him quietly.
His anger deflates slightly. “Use the bucket.”
“I can’t—”
“Then hold it,” he says before turning back to face the window. “I’m not uncuffing you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not stupid. If I uncuff you, you’ll run, and I don’t have the patience to deal with that right now.”
“Where would I go?” I gesture at the window with my free hand. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Plus, I wouldn’t make it ten feet before you caught me.”
“It’s not the catching you part that concerns me.” He shakes his head. “It’s everything after that. If you ran, I’d have to drag you back here. You’d fight me, and someone would get hurt. That someone being you. And contrary to what you believe, I don’t actually want to hurt you, so the answer is no.”
“This is cruel.”
“Yeah, well, it’s better than being dead.” There is a bitterness to his voice that I try to ignore. He’s quiet for a moment, then adds without looking at me, “I’ll turn around to give you a little privacy.”
It’s not what I want, but it’s something. A small concession that feels enormous given the circumstances.
“Fine,” I whisper, defeated.
He moves to face the wall, his back rigid. I stare at him for a moment, making sure he’s not looking, then awkwardly maneuver with the bucket, my face burning with humiliation. When I’m finished, I pull the quilt over my body like armor and curl up facing away from him.
“You can turn around,” I say, my voice muffled.
I hear him move, his heavy footsteps cross the cabin.
The bucket rattles, and then the front door opens. I can only assume he’s taking it outside to dispose of. When he returns, that same heavy silence from before funnels into the space.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. How do I respond, especially when it doesn’t feel like he’s sorry. “I know that doesn’t mean anything to you,” he continues. “I know sorry doesn’t fix this. But... I am. Sorry. For what it’s worth.”
“It’s not worth much,” I say quietly, still facing away from him.
“I know.”
Neither of us says anything. I know he’s moved to sit in a chair when the legs of the chair creak under his weight. Every few minutes, he shifts, and the chair creaks again. It seems like his body is as restless as my mind. I continue lying down, trapped and terrified and so tired I can barely think straight.
“You should try to sleep,” he says after a while.
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to go home.”
“I already told you that’s not an option, Saint.” Irritation coats his voice, and I know he’s annoyed with me, but I don’t care. I’m annoyed at his lack of answers. At his presence, and the way it makes me feel when it shouldn’t.