Chapter 4 #2
"The judge dismissed the case," I continue, forcing myself to meet Cain's eyes again. "Said there wasn't enough evidence. That it was all 'circumstantial.' The temporary order was dissolved, effective immediately."
Cain's thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand. "And Warren?"
"He smiled at me as he left the courtroom.
" The memory makes my stomach clench. "Not a big smile.
Just that little uptick at the corner of his mouth, like he knew he'd won.
" I take a deep breath, memories washing over me like a tide I can't escape.
"I quit my job that day. Packed what I could and left everything else behind. "
Cain's eyes never leave mine, dark and steady as the night sky. His hand remains on mine, the warmth of his skin grounding me to this moment, to this kitchen, to him.
"He's been hunting me ever since," I say, my voice stronger now. "I've stayed in six different motels. Changed my phone number twice. I cut my hair, dyed it, and stopped wearing makeup. None of it matters. He always finds me."
"Not anymore," Cain says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Not while you're here."
The conviction in his voice makes something crack open inside me—a door I've kept sealed shut since the courtroom. Since my mother's betrayal. Since I realized I was completely alone.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask, the question barely audible. "You don't even know me."
Cain's thumb traces small circles on my wrist, his touch gentle over the bruises left last night.
"Because I know what it's like," Cain says, his voice dropping lower. His thumb stops its gentle circles on my wrist, and something shifts in his expression—a door opening to a dark room I haven't been invited into before.
He pulls his hand away, and I immediately miss the warmth.
"I grew up in houses that smelled like fear," he says, the words coming out measured, controlled. "My mother had a type—men with heavy hands and short tempers."
My breath catches. I stay perfectly still, afraid that any movement might make him stop talking.
"First one was my father. Construction worker. Drank like it was his religion." Cain's eyes focus somewhere beyond me, seeing ghosts I can't. "He'd come home with concrete dust still on his boots and find reasons why dinner wasn't right or the house wasn't clean enough."
Cain's jaw tightens, the muscles working beneath his stubbled skin. "I was five the first time I tried to stop him. Got my arm broken for the trouble."
My stomach knots. I want to reach for his hand, but sense he needs space to tell this story.
"He left when I was seven. Or I watched him leave.
Through a broken window. He threw my mother through it first." Cain's voice is flat and emotionless, as if he's reading from a police report instead of his own life.
"I sat with her on the kitchen floor, holding a dishrag to her face, watching blood soak through it like it was someone else's mother, someone else's blood. "
I can't breathe. Can't move. His words land like blows, each one heavier than the last.
"The next one was worse," he continues, eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder. "Meth dealer. Liked to put cigarettes out on her arms when he was coming down. Said it helped him focus."
My throat tightens. I want to reach for his hand again, but something in his posture keeps me still.
"I was eleven when I watched him drag her across the kitchen by her hair.
Slammed her head against the counter until she stopped screaming.
" His voice doesn't waver, but I see something dark flicker behind his eyes.
"That night, I took his gun while he was passed out.
Stood over him for an hour, finger on the trigger. "
"Did you—"
"I didn't pull the trigger that night," Cain says, voice low. "But the next time he put his hands on her, I did."
I can't breathe. Can't speak. The confession hangs between us like smoke.
"I was twelve when I went to juvie. Fourteen when I joined the East Side Kings," he continues, setting his mug down with controlled precision. "Local gang. Needed protection after what happened to my mom."
He flexes his fingers absently, the tattoos shifting across his knuckles. I can see the letters now—KING inked across one hand, SINS across the other.
My heart stutters. "What happened to your mother?"
"Third boyfriend killed her." His voice is flat, emotionless. "I came home from school and found her in the bathtub. He'd been high for three days straight. Said she wouldn't stop crying."
I reach for his hand without thinking this time, my fingers brushing against his knuckles. He doesn't pull away.
"The Kings took me in. Gave me a place to sleep, food to eat. Taught me how to fight back." His thumb traces circles on my palm, almost unconsciously. "By fifteen, I was running product for them. By seventeen, I was their enforcer."
The prison ink on his arms takes on new meaning now. Not just decoration—history, written in skin and scar tissue.
"Was in and out of jail through my twenties. Armed robbery. Assault. Distribution." He says it matter-of-factly, like reading a grocery list. "Last stint was seven years in Stateville. Got out three years ago."
I study his hands as he speaks—the scarred knuckles, the thick fingers that handled me so gently last night. Hands that have hurt people. Hands that have killed.
"I'm good with my hands," he continues, flexing his fingers slightly. "Inside, I learned welding, mechanics. Anything to stay busy, to stay useful.”
"The bar was my fresh start," he says, his eyes finding mine again. "Bought it with money I'd been saving since I was inside. Place where people leave their troubles at the door."
I squeeze his hand gently. "Except for rabbits who bring their troubles in with them."
His mouth quirks in that not-quite-smile. "Except for one little rabbit."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our shared confessions settling between us like a blanket. Not suffocating—just heavy with understanding. I look at our hands, still joined on the table, and realize I'm not afraid of his touch. Not even knowing what those hands have done.
"Warren won't stop," I say finally, my voice quiet but steady. "Not until he has me back under his control."
Cain's eyes darken. "He's never touching you again."
The conviction in his voice wraps around me like armor. For the first time in months, I believe I might actually be safe.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For everything. For helping me. For letting me stay here. For the job."
His thumb traces the bruises on my wrist, feather-light. His touch is gentle on my bruised skin, a stark contrast to the violence in his past. I should be running from this man who's killed before, but instead I find myself leaning into his touch, craving the safety of his calloused hands.
"You don't have to thank me," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You're handling this better than most would."
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Hiding in a stranger's apartment above a bar? Sleeping on the floor with a gun? Yeah, I'm really crushing this whole stalking victim thing."
His fingers tighten slightly around mine. "You're still standing. Still fighting. That counts for something."
His words wrap around me like a blanket, warm and unexpected. We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our confessions hanging in the air between us.
I glance at the clock on the microwave—8:17 AM. The bar doesn't open until four, but suddenly I'm restless, needing to move, to do something.
"I should probably shower," I say, reluctantly pulling my hand from his. "Get dressed for the day."
Cain nods, standing to clear our plates. "Water pressure's not great, but it gets hot eventually. Towels are in the cabinet next to the sink."
I slip off the stool and pad toward the bathroom, pausing at the doorway. "Cain?"
He looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Thank you. For listening. For not…" I struggle to find the right words. "For not looking at me like I'm broken."
His expression softens slightly. "You're not broken, Rabbit. Just a little bent.”