Page 70 of Keeper

Breathing becomes difficult as I allow that to sink in, my hands clammy and clenched at my sides as I fight the urge to make a scene. There’s so many important people here it’s tempting to ruin this day for everyone — especially Ephraim and Verna. If they could feel a fraction of how shitty we feel, it’d be worth it.

But how willshefeel?

Something tells me she’s hoping for it while the rest of her is too scared for her life.

For our child’s life.

I have to keep my shit together.

My hands clench painfully at my sides as the doors open once more and she walks in with her father. She’s too far away for me to see her eyes, but I don’t need to. I can feel her fear and sadness from here, radiating off of her in waves. Her veil doesn’t cover her face, it falls behind her back flowing behind her in a way that makes it hard to stay where I am. But when I take a step forward, my brother’s hand snaps out to grab my arm.

Good thing no one is looking at us. She’s so damn beautiful it’s impossible for anyone to look away, but they don’t see what I see underneath all that beauty as I tug my arm away from him and give her all my attention again. They don’t see how much she wants to run. They don’t feel how badly I’ve failed her.

Fuck, baby. I’m sorry I didn’t fix this. Please don’t give up on me yet. Iwillsave you. I don’t care who I have to kill to give you the life you deserve.

This is far from the end of our story.

Twenty-Six

I’m gripping my father’sarm too tightly and I know it. He’s a large man, muscular and broad, used to subduing all sorts of rabid creatures and dangerous men. But here, with my french-tipped fingernails digging into his bicep through his suit, he’s flinching. Not because of the pain, I’m sure. Because he knows what he’s walking me toward. As the Chief of the entire Saint City Police Department, he has a keen understanding of who Ephraim Creed is, what he does, and what kind of life I will live once he hands me over to his prodigal son.

But heishanding me over. There’s been no talk of leaving, no hushed whispers begging me to run. His head is high, shoulders squared, and nothing about his demeanor suggests he’s going to do anything to save me.

That’s okay. I never expected him of all people to swoop in. But as my eyes lift from the richly carpeted aisle and land on Draven instead of Alex, my stomach drops. He’s there. He’s right there, next to my spineless betrothed, fists clenched at his sides and jaw tense. He doesn’t want this either, but he’s standing there. He’s not diving in front of his brother to stop me from doing this, not pulling a gun on the father that shuns him to get me out of it. He’s standing there. He won’t save me.

That’s fine. In fairness, I told him not to. Men tend to listen when it means they get to keep their lives at the end of the story.

Everywhere I look, I see sadness. Alex looks like a whipped dog, Morella looks seconds from a meltdown. Even the rest of my assigned bridal party looks uneasy, like they can’t hide the fact that Verna forced them to be here. The other groomsmen mirror their expressions, their uncomfortable shifts from foot to foot.

They won’t save me.

No one will save me.

And as my gaze lands on Ephraim himself — to the smugness there, the self-righteousness and air of untouchability that radiates off of him — I realize I’m not the one who truly needs saving, anyway. There’s a child growing inside me, a baby who will rely on me with every breath and every second to protect them from harm.

This story isn’t about some pretty, pristine pawn anymore. It’s about them, their life and future, and the lengths at which a pawn will go to strike down anyone in their way. So as I stand in front of Alex and three-hundred of the most dangerous people in the country, listening to the officiant’s little welcome speech and bullshit religious readings, I don’t cower. My spine straightens. My chin raises. I stand tall, proud, and solid in my convictions.

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