Chapter 22 A Knife Between Courses
Chapter twenty-two
A Knife Between Courses
The kitchen smells like roasted garlic and caramelized onions, like sage and butter, and too many promises made over open flames.
Cain’s beside me, sleeves rolled, tattooed forearms slick with heat and hustle.
He looks feral with a carving knife in his hand and a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, like a wolf cosplaying as a househusband.
Like he could gut a man or a turkey with equal precision—and God, I love him for that.
“Mac and cheese is done,” I call, pulling the bubbling tray from the oven. “Tell me that doesn't look like a love letter from the dairy gods.”
Cain grunts, approving. “That right there might just make me marry you.”
I laugh. Loud. Free. Real. It shakes something loose inside me. “You’d marry me for my macaroni?”
“I’d marry you for your burnt toast if you asked me to,” he says, leaning in and brushing his lips across the shell of my ear, low and rough. “But the macaroni helps.”
Outside the kitchen doors, I can hear it all—laughter, silverware clinking against mismatched plates, the jukebox half-drowned out by happy voices.
Hank’s booming laugh cuts through it all, probably giving someone shit over the pie table.
There’s a dog barking somewhere, a toddler crying, and a drunk man yelling “GO PATS” even though it’s not game day.
It’s chaos. Beautiful, human, holy chaos.
Our chaos.
Cain passes me a plate stacked with sweet potatoes. “You gonna breathe anytime soon, little rabbit?”
I smile up at him, heart squeezing. “Maybe later. Right now, I’m too busy being grateful.”
He leans in again, presses a kiss to my temple. “You deserve every bit of this.”
I slip out the back door with a deep exhale and a half-smile, clutching my hoodie tighter around me as the late November air kisses my flushed cheeks. My hair’s pulled up, apron dusted in flour and god knows what else, but I feel radiant. Like I’m glowing from the inside out.
Everything is going good.
The bar is full of warmth and found family, of strangers breaking bread and Cain pretending not to be moved by it. Hank’s pouring shots for the old timers and pretending he’s not emotionally invested in the pecan pie bake-off. My heart is full, too full, overflowing in that scary-beautiful way.
I just need a breath. A single moment of silence to let the goodness soak in.
But the alley’s not empty. He’s there. Warren.
He steps out from the shadows like he never left, like he’s been waiting. Watching. His coat’s too nice for this place. His face is twisted into that mask I used to mistake for charm.
I freeze. Only for a second. Just one blink. But it’s enough for the cold to slither into my chest.
“Well,” he says, smirking like this is a joke only he gets to laugh at, “look what the gutter dragged out.”
My stomach tightens. My fists clench.
I don't scream. I don’t run. I stand my ground. Because I’m not that girl anymore. Not his victim. Not anyone’s.
His shadow cuts across the wall as he moves in closer, blocking my only way out. The metal of the dumpster is at my back. Cold. Unforgiving. Just like him.
“I just want to talk,” he says, hands raised like I’m the one being unreasonable. “You’re being irrational, Magdalena.”
I straighten, chin up. “Get out of my way.”
“You need help,” he snaps. “You're spiraling. That place? That man? Look at you. You’re not well.”
The words try to worm their way in, the way they used to. But they don’t land like they did before. Not anymore.
He steps closer. I move with him—sharper, faster, teeth bared. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
He flinches at the steel in my voice but recovers too fast, leaning in like he still thinks he’s in control. “Your mother and I—we care about you. You’re ruining your life, and you're too blind to see it. I mentored you. I gave you everything.”
“You tried to own me.” My fists are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.
“You used to be brilliant. Now you’re just some whore behind a bar. Do you have any idea how insane that looks?”
“Insane?” I let out a sharp laugh, unhinged and wild. “You followed me into an alley on Thanksgiving, you delusional sack of shit.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re sick. You need therapy. Real help. Not some… ex-con lover whispering in your ear while he fucks the sanity out of you.”
Before I can spit another curse in his face, he lunges.
His hand wraps around my arm like a damn vice, yanking me toward the wall. My shoulder slams into the brick, pain flashing hot, but it only lights the fuse.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I snarl, trying to rip free.
He grabs my other wrist and starts dragging me toward the mouth of the alley.
I twist my body sideways, dead weight against his pull, and stomp down hard on the top of his foot. Bone crunches under my heel. He shouts.
Cain taught me that.
While he’s distracted, I drive my elbow backward into his gut. He grunts—stumbles. I spin, slam my knee up into his inner thigh—close, but not quite the sweet spot.
Hank taught me that.
“LET—ME—GO!” I scream, each word punctuated by another hit, another jab, another strike from the arsenal they built into my bones.
But he recovers faster than I thought he would. His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back against him. I thrash, buck, bite—yes, bite—and my teeth sink into the meat of his arm. The taste of copper explodes in my mouth.
He screams. Shoves me off.
I stagger but don’t fall. I never fall.
“Crazy bitch!” he roars, wiping blood on his sleeve, and he swings.
I duck.
Low.
Cain’s voice echoes in my head: “Always go under, never back.”
I come up inside his reach, fist tight, and drive an uppercut into his gut. He folds forward—and I rise with a headbutt that cracks against his nose.
He stumbles.
I shove him again, this time with everything I’ve got, and he hits the wall.
“Come near me again,” I growl, voice shaking with fury, “and I’ll show you what it feels like to be preyed on by something with sharper fucking teeth.”
His eyes are wild now. Blood dripping from his nose, shirt torn, hair disheveled. He looks at me like he’s just seen the devil.
Good. He runs. Coward. Again.
I don’t waste a second. I spin on my heel and run for the kitchen door.
Because I didn’t let him take me. And I’m not going to let him take this, either.
He vanishes around the corner, boots slapping the pavement, and I don’t chase him—I run the other way. My chest is heaving, hands shaking, teeth clenched so tight I taste blood. The kitchen door bangs open as I shove through it, the warmth of the ovens hitting me like a wall, but Cain’s not here.
Where the hell is he?
“Cain?” I yell, breath ragged. “Cain!”
Panic claws up my throat like smoke in a fire. My fists are raw. My arm’s already bruising. There’s blood—his or mine, I don’t know—and the roar in my ears won’t stop.
I push through the swinging kitchen doors like I’m about to charge the gates of hell.
The bar goes silent.
Dozens of heads turn. Forks frozen halfway to mouths. Music forgotten mid-beat. Hank stops mid-pour, bottle tilted. Even the damn jukebox seems to hold its breath.
And then—he’s there.
Cain’s across the room before I can even blink, like gravity just ripped him into my orbit. His hands are on me instantly, cupping my face, scanning every inch, every bruise, every tremble like he's counting sins he needs to atone for with blood.
“Where is he?” he breathes, deadly soft.
I shake my head, lips trembling. “He’s gone. I—I fought. I didn’t let him take me.”
Something shifts in him. His shoulders relax, just a hair. But his jaw tightens like a loaded gun.
“I’m so proud of you, little rabbit,” he whispers, thumb brushing the edge of my cheek. “Just like I taught you.”
The bar stays silent. Watching. Waiting.
And Cain doesn’t care.
He pulls me into his arms, and for a second—I don’t care either.
Hank doesn’t say a word.
Just sets down the bar rag, pushes through the side door, and goes.
I don’t need to ask where.
“Let them eat,” I whisper, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “Just… let them have dinner.”
Cain’s eyes flick toward the crowd—still watching, still holding their collective breath like they’ve witnessed something sacred and unholy all at once.
He nods once, presses a kiss to my temple, and steers me gently toward the back.
The kitchen blurs past. Steam, heat, spice—all of it too much and not enough. My knees buckle near the prep table, and he catches me before I can sink. Strong arms, steady hands. His rage tucked just beneath the skin.
Out back, the cool air wraps around me like a wet cloth. I lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath.
Cain crouches in front of me, a clean rag in his hand, the other gripping a bottle of water like it’s medicine.
He dabs gently at the split in my lip.
"Easy, little rabbit,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “I got you.”
"I didn’t cry," I whisper.
"I know."
"I hit him."
“I know.” There's a glint in his eye like he wants to praise me and murder someone at the same time.
“Am I crazy?” My voice cracks. “Is that what they’re gonna say? That I snapped?”
“No.” He cups my cheek, gentler than anyone like him has a right to be. “You’re brave. And you’re mine.”
And just like that—my shoulders drop. My lungs remember how to work. My hands unclench.
Until the door swings open again. Hank’s face is grim.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says.
Cain doesn’t move. Just holds me tighter.
Hank glances toward me, then back at Cain. “Cops are here.”
I step into the bar, still shaken, still tasting blood and fear.
Two cops are waiting. Everybody is staring, breaths being held, forks down.
“Magdalena Holloway?” the older one asks, voice clipped.
I don’t answer. Just stare.
“We’re placing you under arrest for assault. The victim has filed a report. We need you to come with us.”
“What?” The word punches out of me. “What? No—he attacked me! He—he grabbed me, he cornered me—”
“We’re going to need you to come with us now.”
Cain moves to step between us, but I throw an arm out to stop him. My voice cracks like a whip.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I was defending myself! He came at me! He’s the one—he—he’s the one who stalked me!”
The younger cop shifts on his feet. The bar is silent, our regulars coming to stand behind me.
“No—no, no, no—” I thrash, my voice cracking, raw, loud enough to rattle the bricks. “You can’t—you can’t do this—I didn’t do anything wrong!”
My breath comes fast, too fast. The room spins. My knees threaten to buckle, and I yank myself upright, fury fusing with terror.
“He’s the one who’s sick!” I scream. “He followed me here. He grabbed me. He cornered me like prey. He’s the reason I left my old life. He ruined it. And now—now he gets to ruin this too?”
The younger cop falters, looks at the older one like he might waver.
But the other one just steps forward with the cuffs, voice clipped. “Ma’am—”
“Don’t fucking call me ma’am!” I scream so loud it scrapes my throat bloody. “Do you know what it’s like to beg for help and have no one believe you? To scream for someone to see you, to say please, I’m not crazy, I’m not dangerous, I’m just—”
Tears streak down my face, but I don’t feel them. I feel nothing but a jagged heat splitting me in two.
“I fought,” I sob, chest heaving, “I fought. I did what I was supposed to do. He didn’t take me. He didn’t win. And you’re punishing me for that?”
Cain’s hands are on my arms again, but I can’t hear him. Not over the rush in my ears, the crackling collapse of the world I built brick by aching brick.
“This is how you protect women?” I spit. “This is your justice? Arrest the girl who said no and fought back hard enough to scare him?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper, more to myself now. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Cain,” I choke, turning to him as panic sets in, wild and sharp and suffocating. “Cain, no. I can’t—I can’t—this can’t happen again—I just got my life back. I just—”
He catches my face in his hands, steady and firm, grounding me.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“This is what they want, little sinner.”
His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly calm.
“Be my saint. Go quiet. I got you. I promise.”
Tears flood my eyes. My chest caves in on itself. But the cuffs are already closing cold around my wrists.
Cain tries to keep eye contact, but I can’t meet his eyes. Can’t stand to see the storm there, the helpless rage I know matches mine. I just shake my head, over and over, like maybe I can undo this. Like maybe I can wake up.
Everything I rebuilt—it’s unraveling at my feet. And I feel so small. So powerless. So fucking furious I want to scream until it shakes the goddamn earth.
But instead, I go quiet. Because Cain asked me to. Because I trust him. Because I’ve run out of fight—for now. But I swear to God—I swear on every saint I ever prayed to—I will come back swinging.