Chapter 3 Holy Water Doesn’t Burn Him #2
My pulse quickens. "What is it?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Nothing yet," Cain says, his eyes never leaving the entrance. "Just making sure we're covered."
I glance at Hank, who's now positioned himself to have a clear view of both the door and the bar. His posture has changed—more alert, like a guard dog that's caught an unfamiliar scent.
"You told him about Warren," I say. It's not a question.
Cain nods, wiping down the counter with slow, deliberate movements. "Hank's good people. Ex-military. Keeps an eye out for trouble."
The bell above the door jingles, and three men in oil-stained work clothes push their way inside. They're laughing, shoving each other playfully as they make their way to the bar. I recognize the type immediately—construction or mechanics, fresh off a shift, looking to unwind before heading home.
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" I ask, forcing confidence into my voice as I approach their end of the bar.
"Three Buds," the tallest one says, slapping a twenty on the counter. His eyes linger on me a moment longer than necessary, but it's not predatory, just curious. "You new here?"
I nod, reaching for clean pint glasses. "First day."
"Well, darlin', you're already an improvement on the last guy," another one says with a good-natured grin. "No offense to Cain, but he ain't nearly as pretty."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Cain's slight head shake, a warning not to engage too much. I keep my smile professional as I pour their beers, making sure to tilt the glass at the angle he showed me.
"Six dollars each," I say, sliding the beers over to them.
The door keeps swinging open, and the bar fills up faster than I expect. By six o'clock, nearly every stool is taken, and the low hum of conversation competes with the classic rock playing from the speakers. I'm moving on instinct now, pouring drinks, making change, wiping down spills.
"You're a natural," Hank says when I deliver his second whiskey. His eyes are still alert, scanning the door each time it opens, but his smile is genuine.
"Thanks," I say, feeling a strange sense of pride bloom in my chest. It's been months since I've felt competent at anything.
Cain moves around me in a careful dance, our bodies never quite touching but always aware of each other.
When I reach for a bottle he's just used, his hand brushes mine deliberately, a silent question.
I meet his eyes and nod. I'm okay. The panic from earlier has receded, replaced by the steady rhythm of work.
"Hey there, beautiful." A new voice cuts through the bar noise. "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
I turn to find a man I don't recognize leaning against the bar. He's younger than most of the other patrons.
"What can I get you?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral as I set a cocktail napkin in front of him.
"How about your number?" He leans closer, invading my space. His cologne is too strong, masking the smell of day-old sweat. "Or maybe just your name to start?"
I take a step back, my spine hitting the shelf of liquor bottles behind me. "I'm Mags. What can I get you to drink?"
He grins, revealing teeth too white to be natural. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm just being friendly." His eyes drop to the knot where I've tied Cain's shirt at my waist, lingering there. "That shirt looks good on you, but I bet it would look better on my floor."
My skin crawls. It's not the worst line I've heard. Still, after months of Warren's predatory attention, any unwanted male interest makes my heart race in the worst way.
"Just a drink order, please," I say, my voice tight. I glance toward Cain, who's serving someone at the other end of the bar, his back to us.
"Jack and Coke," the man finally orders, still leaning too close. "Make it strong."
I turn to make his drink, relieved to have something to do with my hands. The bottle feels cool against my palm as I pour a generous amount over ice, adding just enough Coke to color it brown. I slide it across the bar, careful to avoid his fingers.
"That'll be seven dollars," I say, keeping my voice professional.
He tosses a ten on the counter. "Keep the change, beautiful. Consider it the start of your tip." He winks, taking a long sip. "This is good. You've got talented hands."
I force a smile and turn to help another customer, but his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. His fingers dig into my skin, pulling me back toward him.
"Hey, I'm not done talking to you," he says, his voice harder now, the friendly facade slipping. "That's rude, walking away from a paying customer."
My body goes rigid, memories of Warren flashing through my mind—his hand on my arm in the office, his fingers leaving bruises I'd hide with long sleeves. The bar around me blurs as panic takes over.
A shadow falls across the bar, and suddenly the pressure on my wrist disappears. The man's hand is wrenched away, and Cain materializes beside me, his presence filling the space like a thundercloud.
"Let go of my bartender." Cain's voice is deadly quiet, barely audible above the bar noise, but it cuts through everything like a blade.
The man's cocky smile falters as he looks up—and up—at Cain. "Hey man, we were just talking. No harm—"
"You touched her without permission." Cain's hand clamps down on the man's shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough that I see the guy wince. "That's harm."
I rub my wrist where the man's fingers left red marks, my heart still racing. Cain's eyes flick to the motion, then back to the man's face. Something dark and dangerous flashes across his features.
"I didn't mean anything by it," the man stammers, trying to shrug off Cain's grip. "Just being friendly."
“Friendly doesn't leave marks." Cain's voice drops even lower, the rumble of it vibrating through my chest despite the distance between us.
I see movement over the guy's shoulder—Hank stands behind him, face set in grim determination. His weathered hands rest on the guy's shoulders.
"Time to go," Hank says, voice steady and firm. "You don't touch Mags."
The guy tries to turn, but Hank's grip tightens. His eyes widen as he realizes he's caught between two men who clearly won't hesitate to remove him.
"Alright, alright," he says, raising his hands. "I get it. I'm leaving."
Hank's eyes meet mine over the guy's shoulder, a silent question. I give a small nod. I'm okay.
The guy drains his drink in one gulp, then slides off his stool. Hank's hand remains firmly on his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. The other patrons watch with quiet interest, but no one interferes. This clearly isn't their first time seeing someone escorted out of The Pulpit.
As the man's back disappears through the door, Cain turns to me, his eyes darkening as they drop to my wrist. The red marks are already blooming into what will become bruises by morning.
"Come with me," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the kitchen. The gentle pressure of his fingers is a stark contrast to the grip that had just been on my wrist. I feel my heartbeat in my throat as we push through the swinging door into the back.
The kitchen is quiet, the fluorescent lights casting everything in a harsh glow. Cain leads me to the sink, turning on the cold water.
"Hold it under," he instructs, his voice gentler than I've heard it before.
I place my wrist beneath the stream, wincing at the sting. The cold numbs the pain, but does nothing for the memory of those fingers digging into my skin.
Cain watches me, his jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. When I pull my hand away, he takes it in his, turning it carefully to examine the marks.
His thumb traces the marks on my wrist, feather-light. I try not to flinch, but my breath catches anyway. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the industrial refrigerator and the distant bass of music from the bar.
"Does it hurt?" Cain asks, his voice low and rough.
"I've had worse," I say, trying to sound casual, but my voice wavers.
His eyes darken. "That's not what I asked."
I swallow hard. "Yes. It hurts."
Cain nods once, his jaw tight. He reaches into a nearby freezer, pulls out a handful of ice, and wraps it in a clean bar towel. The makeshift ice pack is cold against my skin as he presses it gently to my wrist.
"Hold this," he instructs.
I take the ice pack, our fingers brushing. The touch sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with pain.
"I should get back out there," I say, gesturing toward the bar with my free hand. "Customers—"
Cain doesn't move; his large frame blocks the path back to the bar. "Hank can handle it for a few minutes."
"I'm fine," I insist, but my voice betrays me, cracking on the second word.
Cain steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're not fine, little rabbit."
The nickname sends a shiver down my spine. His hand moves up, rough fingertips tracing the line of my jaw, so gentle it makes my chest ache. I lean into his touch without meaning to, starved for contact that doesn't hurt.
"You held your own out there," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Brave girl."
The kitchen door swings open. "Everything good in here?" Hank's voice cuts through the moment.
We jump apart like guilty teenagers. Cain's hand drops to his side, and I take a step back, nearly colliding with the sink behind me.
"Yup," Cain says, his voice gruff. "Just checking her wrist."
Hank's eyes move between us, a knowing smile crossing his weathered face. "Bar's getting busy. Thought you might want to know."
I notice Cain's subtle nod to Hank—a silent communication that flows between them like a current. We head back out to the bar together, Cain's presence solid behind me. The ice pack is still clutched in my hand, numbing the throbbing pain in my wrist.
The bar has filled up even more in our absence. Bodies press against the counter, voices raised to be heard over the music. I slip back behind the bar, trying to regain my composure, slipping the ice pack onto a shelf below.
Cain moves in close behind me as I reach for a bottle. His chest brushes against my back, and his breath is warm against my ear.
"If anyone else touches you," he whispers, his voice so low only I can hear it, "you give me a signal. Tap twice on the counter. I'll handle it." His lips almost brush against my skin as he speaks, sending shivers down my spine. "No one puts their hands on what's mine."
The possessive words should alarm me. Instead, they wrap around me like armor. I nod, unable to form words with him so close, his scent enveloping me.
“You're not alone anymore, little rabbit."