Leviathan’s Image (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Pittsburgh, PA #1)

Chapter 1

Ripley

The chicken needs to be perfect.

I adjust the heat on the burner, watching the oil shimmer in the cast iron skillet.

Not too hot—if I burn it, he'll know.

He always knows.

The meat is seasoned exactly how he likes it: salt, pepper, garlic powder, and a hint of paprika.

No rosemary. He hates rosemary.

I made that mistake once, eight months into our relationship, and I still remember the way he looked at me.

Like I was stupid. Like I was nothing.

I learned.

The apartment smells like garlic and vanilla sugar air freshener—his favorite.

The floors are swept, the dishes put away, the bathroom scrubbed until my knuckles ached.

I showered an hour ago, shaved everything, dried my hair the way he likes it—down and soft, no ponytail.

Ponytails are lazy, he says.

I glance at the clock. 4:57.

He should be home any minute.

My stomach clenches, that familiar knot of dread tightening beneath my ribs.

I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in.

I never know.

Some days he walks through the door and pulls me into his arms, calls me baby, tells me I'm beautiful.

Those days feel like a reward. Other days...

The lock turns.

I straighten my spine, smooth my hands over the front of my dress—the navy blue one he bought me, the one that hugs my hips and makes my waist look smaller.

I paste on a smile. Not too big, not too eager. Just welcoming.

The door swings open, and Cain steps inside.

He's still wearing his cut—the leather vest with the Saint's Outlaws patch on the back, the Enforcer rocker beneath it.

His dark hair is disheveled, his jaw tight, his eyes hard.

I know that look. Something happened at the clubhouse.

My smile falters. I catch it, hold it in place.

"Hey, baby," I say, keeping my voice soft. "Dinner's almost ready."

He doesn't respond.

He shuts the door behind him, tossing his keys onto the counter with a clatter that makes me flinch.

I hate that I flinch.

I hate that three years of walking on eggshells have turned me into a woman who jumps at the sound of keys.

Cain grabs a beer from the fridge, cracks it open, takes a long pull.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to read the tension in his shoulders.

Trying to predict which version of him I'm dealing with tonight.

"How was your day?" I try again.

"Shit." He drops into a chair at the kitchen table, sprawling back, legs spread wide. "Fuckin’ Leviathan called church over some bullshit. Wasted two hours listening to Zenon run his mouth."

Leviathan. The president of the club.

I've seen him at gatherings—tall, built like a wall, with cold blue eyes that seem to see everything.

He makes me nervous in a different way than Cain does.

Cain is a storm I can see coming. Leviathan is something quieter. Something I can't read.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically.

I'm always sorry. Sorry for things I didn't do, sorry for things I can't control, sorry for existing in a way that inconveniences him.

"You should be." His eyes flick to me. "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken. Your favorite—"

"I can see it's chicken, Ripley. I'm not fuckin’ blind."

I close my mouth and turn back to the stove and flip the meat with trembling hands.

The oil pops, spattering against my wrist, and I bite my cheek to keep from making a sound.

The silence stretches.

I know better than to fill it.

When Cain is like this, anything I say will be used against me.

So I focus on the chicken. This, at least, I can control.

"Did you leave the apartment today?"

The question is casual, but it's not casual.

"Just to get groceries," I say carefully. "We were out of milk."

"Did you talk to anyone?"

"Just the cashier."

He's quiet.

I feel his gaze on my back, heavy and assessing.

I've learned to shrink my life down to the size of this apartment, to make myself so small there's nothing left for him to punish.

It's never enough.

"I saw the way you looked at Stark last weekend," Cain says, and my blood turns to ice. "At the party. You think I didn't notice?"

"Cain, I—"

"Don't fuckin’ lie to me." His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. I hear him move closer, feel the heat of him at my back, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. "You were smiling at him. Laughing at his jokes like some kind of whore."

"I was just being polite." My voice comes out thin. Pathetic. "He was talking to me. I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what?" His hand closes around my hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "You didn't mean to flirt with another man right in front of me?"

He spins me around.

Suddenly I'm face to face with him, his eyes blazing, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

The chicken sizzles behind me, forgotten.

"Who else would want you?" he asks, his voice almost gentle now. That's worse. The gentleness is always worse. "Look at yourself, Ripley."

His hand moves to my stomach, grabbing a handful of flesh through the fabric of my dress.

I suck in a breath, shame flooding through me.

"You think Stark wants this?" He squeezes, and tears prick at my eyes. "You think any man is looking at you and thinking, yeah, I want that fat bitch? You're lucky I keep you around."

"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry—"

"You'd be nothing without me. Remember that."

I nod, because that's what he wants.

Because agreeing is the fastest way to make this stop.

My mother raised me to be strong, to never take shit from any man.

But my mother doesn't know what happens behind this door. No one does.

Cain's grip loosens.

He steps back, reaches for his beer, and I sag against the counter.

The chicken is burning.

I turn quickly, rescue what I can.

"My mom called," I say without thinking, desperate to change the subject. "She wants to know if we're coming to the Steelers game next month."

"Your mom." He snorts. "That woman is a piece of work."

"She just misses me—"

"What, you want to go running back to mommy?

Tell her all about your problems?" He drops into his chair again.

"Because we both know how that would go.

You'd open your mouth and nothing would come out, because you know this is the best you're ever going to get.

" He takes a long drink. "Your own father doesn't want you.

Why do you think he's never around? Sends a check and disappears for months. That's how much you matter to him."

The words land like blows, each one precise.

My father—Richard Castellano, successful businessman, master of the absent birthday card and the guilt-funded education.

He paid for my college degree.

The English degree I was so proud of.

The one that was supposed to be my ticket to teaching kids how to love words.

Three years ago, I had plans. I was going to be a teacher. I was going to matter.

Now I'm standing in a kitchen that smells like burned chicken, trying not to cry while the man I live with tells me all the reasons I'm worthless.

"I saw a job posting today," I hear myself say. "For a teaching assistant position. I thought maybe—"

Cain laughs. Sharp. Mocking.

"You want to teach kids? You can't even keep the house clean. You'd be a joke, Ripley. Those kids would eat you alive."

"I just thought—"

"That's your problem. You think too much." He crosses to me, and I hold very still. "You've got it good here. I take care of you. I pay the bills. Everything you have is because of me. Don't ever forget who takes care of you."

"I won't," I whisper. "I don't."

"Good." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the tenderness makes my skin crawl. This is the part I hate most—the way he shifts from cruelty to affection in a breath. "Now finish dinner. I'm starving."

I plate the food with shaking hands.

When I set it in front of him, he doesn't thank me.

He just picks up his fork and starts eating, scrolling through his phone like I'm not even there.

This is my life.

Three years of walking on eggshells, of making myself small, of learning to disappear in plain sight.

I was nineteen when I met him—young and stupid and so desperate to be loved that I mistook possession for passion.

He was charming then.

He made me feel like the center of the universe.

I didn't realize until too late that the universe he was building was a cage.

After dinner, Cain moves to the couch. I clean the kitchen in silence, scrubbing the dishes until they gleam.

My mind wanders—to my mother, who doesn't know; to my father, who wouldn't care; to the teaching job I'll never apply for.

When the kitchen is spotless, I bring him another beer.

He takes it without looking away from the TV.

"You just gonna stand there?" he asks.

"Sorry. I was just—"

"Thinking again." He glances up, and there's that look in his eyes. "Come here."

I hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for his expression to darken.

"I said come here."

He grabs my wrist, yanks me down onto his lap.

His arms wrap around me, holding me in place.

"You know I love you, right?" he murmurs against my hair. "Everything I do is because I love you."

"I know," I say.

"You make me crazy sometimes. The way you look at other men—it makes me crazy. You're mine. You're fuckin’ mine."

His hand slides up my thigh. I force myself to relax. To lean into him. To play the part.

"I'm yours," I say. The words taste like poison.

Later—after he's had his fill of me, after he's rolled over and fallen asleep with his arm across my stomach like an anchor—I lie awake and stare at the ceiling.

The bruises on my hip throb gently, new additions to the collection I hide beneath my clothes.

Tomorrow they'll bloom purple and green. I'll cover them up like I always do.

No one will know.

I think about getting up.

Packing a bag.

Walking out the door and never looking back.

I could go to my mother's house.

I could call my father, ask for money, disappear somewhere Cain could never find me.

But then I hear his voice in my head: You'd be nothing without me.

And I believe him.

That's the worst part.

After three years, I believe him.

I look in the mirror and see what he sees—a woman who's too fat, too stupid, too worthless to make it on her own.

A woman whose own father couldn't be bothered to stick around.

He's broken something in me.

Something I don't know how to fix.

Slowly, carefully, I slide out from under his arm.

I pad barefoot to the bathroom, close the door softly, and turn on the light.

My reflection stares back at me.

I don't recognize her.

There are shadows under her eyes that weren't there years ago.

Lines around her mouth from forcing too many fake smiles.

Her shoulders curve inward, protective, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.

She looks broken.

I look at my body—the curves he mocks, the softness he grabs like it's his to punish.

I look at my eyes—dull, flat, empty—and I search for something.

Anything. Some spark of the woman I used to be.

For just a moment, I find it.

Anger.

It flares in my chest, hot and sharp.

I hate him.

I hate what he's done to me.

I hate that I stay, that I can't find the strength to leave.

The anger feels foreign—like a muscle I haven't used in so long it's atrophied.

But it's there, buried deep beneath the fear and shame, something in me is still alive.

Still mine.

The bathroom door opens.

"The fuck are you doing in here?"

Cain stands in the doorway, his face creased with sleep and irritation.

The anger evaporates instantly, replaced by that familiar cold dread.

"I just needed to use the bathroom," I say quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you—"

"You're always sorry." He steps closer, crowding me against the sink. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. That's all you ever fuckin’ say."

"I know, I—"

His hand closes around my throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just there.

A reminder of what he could do.

What he has done.

His thumb rests against my pulse, feeling it race, and something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes.

"You're mine, Ripley," he says softly. Tenderly. Like a lover. "You'd be nothing without me. Don't ever forget that."

I can't speak. Can't breathe.

Can't do anything but stand there while the man I live with holds my life in his hands.

He leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead, then he releases me and walks away.

"Come back to bed," he calls over his shoulder. "And don't make me come looking for you again."

I wait until I hear him settle onto the mattress, then I look at my reflection one last time.

The anger is gone. The spark is gone.

There's just a woman with a handprint bruising on her throat and tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

I turn off the light and go back to bed.