Page 32 of Forever My Saint
“I’m getting you out of here,” I promise, reaching for his wrists which are bound to the Saint Andrew’s Cross.
He shrieks in agonizing pain, which has me jumping back in horror. When I see the cause of his anguish, I can’t stop the tears which blind me. His left wrist is bent back at an unnatural angle, and although I’m not a doctor, it’s safe to assume it’s dislocated.
Saint groans incoherently, shaking his head from side to side. His eyes are still sealed shut, and I wonder if it’s easier to face the nightmare this way. But he’s not alone.
“Where’s the key?” I don’t wait for him to reply before I madly search the room. There isn’t much down here, just a wooden table which looks like something out of the Middle Ages. There are a few knives and some shiny devices which make my stomach roil because they’re pointy and hard, and most definitely played a part in torturing the man I love.
I toss everything to the ground, screaming in frustration because there is no key.
Running a hand through my hair, I turn in a circle, hoping that by some miracle if I don’t find the key, I can use something else to hack through the chains binding Saint’s wrists and ankles. When I see the shackles hanging from the wall, bile rises up my throat.
This is a torture chamber in every sense of the word.
“I need you to try to stay awake. Can you do that for me?” I ask, running back over to him and gently caressing his cheek.
He flinches and tries to fight me, as I can only imagine he’s only ever felt pain when down here.
“Shh,” I coo, brushing the damp hair from his brow tenderly. “It’s me. Willow. I need you to open your eyes for me, okay? We’re getting out of here.”
Pressing my lips to his forehead, I kiss him gently, inhaling his fragrance because I’ve missed it so much. Even though he still smells of coconut, beneath that sugary scent, his essence still lingers. “I’m so s-sorry he’s done this to you.” Unable to stop the tears, they cascade down my cheeks and somersault onto his.
He hums, and the sound isn’t filled with pain.
“I need you to help me help you. Is there a key down here? Or is there something I can pick the locks with?” I peer up at the manacles around his wrists, wondering if I could use one of the knives to force it open.
There is only one way to find out.
Running over to the mess on the floor, I drop to a squat and hunt for something small enough to wedge into the lock. When I find something that looks like a scalpel, I grab it and sprint back over to Saint.
Working on his non injured wrist, I carefully force the tip of the blade into the lock, wiggling it from side to side. I don’t know what I’m doing, but when I feel something give, I continue poking it. Saint’s moans seem far away as though he’s trapped in a bubble, which somewhat comforts me.
I want to spare him this pain, and if slipping into his happy place allows him even a second of reprieve, then I want him to stay there for as long as he can. I continue working on the lock, perspiration gathering along my brow as I focus on anything giving way.
Deep in concentration, I don’t notice that Saint’s eyes are open until he speaks. “Go,” he pants, attempting to fix his gaze on me.
Adrenaline soars through me, and I desperately brush the hair from his face. His chartreuse eyes simmer dully, but they’re open, and that’s all that matters. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”
He clenches his jaw, his eyes flickering in pain. “Leave…me…here. What I did to you…with Ingrid—”
His words are pained, but so is my heart because his request is one I will not obey. “Shh, save your strength.”
When I attempt to work on the lock, he jerks his fist forward, demanding I listen. “It doesn’t…matter now.”
Blinking back my astonishment at his comment, I shake my head firmly. “Of course, it matters! I’m not going anywhere.”
But it seems by Saint’s next assertion, he would rather I was gone. “You know”—he inhales deeply through his nose, catching his breath—“where…Alek is, but you choose to protect…him.”
The scalpel trembles in my hand as my lips part in horror.
When I think I can speak, I beg him to believe me. “It’s, it’s not like that.”
But Saint has heard enough. “I-I don’t care anymore. Leave me. I deserve this…for what I’ve done. For what I’ve done…to you.” He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Stop this,” I cry, gripping his cheeks and forcing him to look at me. “You don’t g-give up, you hear m-me? We are getting out of he-here. You and me.” I’m skating so close to the edge. I’m trying to be strong, but seeing him this way, seeing him admit defeat is breaking apart whatever strength I have left.
“You’re strong, Saint. Look at what you did. Look what you did to save me.” Tears continue to fall because I can’t stop this hollowed ache I feel. It’s eating a hole straight through me.
But even when shackled and broken beyond repair, his stubbornness still shines. “I didn’t save you because if I had…you wouldn’t protect him.”