Chapter 5
Chapter five
The Devil Leaves No Return Address
The night starts slow.
Hank is already perched on his usual stool when I push through the back door, his weathered hands wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey. He glances up, eyes crinkling at the corners when he spots me.
"Hey there, Mags," he says, his voice gruff but gentle. "How's the wrist?"
I instinctively touch the bruises circling my skin like a bracelet, still tender from last night's encounter. "Better. Thanks for asking."
"That asshole won't be back," Hank says with quiet certainty. "Made sure of it myself."
I raise an eyebrow as I reach for a clean glass. "What exactly does that mean?"
Hank's smile is small but satisfied. "Let's just say I followed him out to his car. Had a little chat about respecting bartenders, especially the pretty ones Cain's taken a shine to."
Heat rushes to my cheeks at Hank's words. I duck my head, suddenly fascinated with the glass I'm wiping down, unable to meet his knowing gaze. The idea that Cain has "taken a shine" to me makes my stomach flutter in a way I haven't felt in months.
"Knock it off, old man," Cain's deep voice comes from behind me. I hadn't heard him approach. "Don't go putting ideas in her head."
Despite his words, there's no real bite in his tone. When I glance up, I catch the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth—that almost-smile that appears so rarely.
"Just stating facts," Hank replies, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Haven't seen you hover over a bartender like that since… well, ever."
Cain slides past me, his arm brushing against mine in the narrow space behind the bar. The brief contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.
"I'm not hovering," Cain says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble that makes my skin prickle with awareness. He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Just protecting what's valuable to me."
The words land somewhere deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe for a moment. His eyes lock with mine, dark and intense, and I see something there that makes my heart race faster. Not just protection—possession.
"You're worth more than all the whiskey on my top shelf, little rabbit," he murmurs, his voice for me alone. "And I'd break a lot more than fingers to keep you safe."
His words should terrify me. They should send me running. Instead, they wrap around me like armor, making me feel safer than I have in months.
"That's… oddly sweet," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Don't get used to it. I've got a reputation to maintain."
Hank chuckles into his whiskey. "Your secret's safe with us, tough guy."
The door swings open with a soft jingle, letting in a gust of cold air.
I glance up, instinct making me check every new arrival.
A young man in a crisp gray suit steps inside, carrying an elaborate bouquet of white lilies and deep red roses.
He looks around nervously, clearly out of place in the bar.
Hank snorts into his whiskey. "Bad date?" he calls out, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The guy shakes his head, clutching the bouquet tighter. "No, sir. Delivery. For Magdalena Holloway?"
My blood turns to ice. No one calls me Magdalena anymore. No one except—
"I'm sorry," I say, my voice steady despite the panic clawing up my throat. "There's no one here by that name."
The delivery guy frowns, checking a small card attached to the flowers. "This is The Pulpit, right? I was told she works here. Magdalena Holloway."
Cain steps forward, his body suddenly a wall between me and the flowers. "Who sent these?" His voice is deceptively calm.
"Warren," I whisper, the name catching in my throat.
The delivery guy smiles, relieved. "That's it! Warren Ellison. Said to tell you he misses seeing you around the office."
My lungs constrict as if someone's wrapped their hands around them and squeezed. The lilies, always lilies, their cloying scent already reaching me across the bar. He knows exactly what they do to me. How they remind me of my mother's perfume, the one she wore to court the day she betrayed me.
The room tilts sideways. I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles turning white as the blood drains from my face. Warren sent me flowers. Here. At Cain's bar. My sanctuary.
"He found me," I gasp, my voice a thread of sound. "He knows I'm here."
The bouquet blurs in my vision, the white lilies transforming into ghostly faces, all wearing Warren's smile. That small, satisfied uptick at the corner of his mouth. The one that says he's won again.
My chest tightens further, each breath becoming shallow and painful. The edges of my vision darken.
Hank takes them from the delivery guy, his weathered hands moving with surprising speed. "I'll make sure she gets these," he says, though his voice holds none of the usual warmth.
"Lock up," Cain tells him, his words clipped and hard as steel. His eyes never leave my face, watching as I struggle to breathe, to think, to function.
Hank nods once, tucking the bouquet under his arm like it's toxic waste. He shepherds the confused delivery guy toward the door, one hand firm on the young man's shoulder. "Bar's closed for the night, son. Time to go."
"But it's barely nine—" the guy protests.
"I said we're closed." Hank's voice leaves no room for argument. The door swings shut behind them, and I hear the definitive click of the deadbolt sliding into place.
My legs give out. I sink to the floor behind the bar, back pressed against the shelves of liquor bottles. They rattle slightly with my trembling. My hands cover my face, but I can still smell them—the lilies. Their scent clings to the air like a ghost.
"He knows," I can't breathe. My lungs are closing up, my throat tightening like someone's hands are wrapped around it. The lilies. The goddamn lilies. He knows exactly what they do to me. "He found me," I gasp again, the words barely making it past my lips.
Cain crouches beside me, his massive frame folding down until we're eye to eye. "Look at me, Mags," he says, his voice cutting through the roaring in my ears. "Just me. Nothing else."
I try to focus on his face, but my vision keeps swimming, blurring around the edges. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to break free. I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here on the floor of a bar because I can't breathe.
"I can't—" I gasp, fingers clawing at my throat.
Cain's hands come up, cupping my face. His palms are rough but warm against my skin, anchoring me to the present. "Yes, you can. You're safe. I've got you."
He lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest as he carries me through the back of the bar and up the narrow staircase.
I can't stop shaking, can't get enough air into my lungs.
The walls close in around me as we climb, and all I can smell are those lilies, their scent following me like a ghost.
"Breathe with me, little rabbit," Cain murmurs, his voice steady and low as we reach the apartment door. He shifts me in his arms, somehow unlocking it without putting me down. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I try to follow his instructions, but each breath catches in my throat, turning into a sob. My fingers dig into his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto as the world spins around me.
He carries me to the couch and sits, still holding me against him. My face presses into his neck, tears soaking his skin as I finally break. Everything I've been holding back—the fear, the helplessness, the rage—comes pouring out in gut-wrenching sobs that tear through my chest.
"He found me," I choke out between sobs.
Cain's arms tighten around me as my chest constricts further, each breath becoming shorter and more desperate than the last. My vision narrows to pinpoints, darkness creeping in from the edges. I can't feel my fingers anymore—they've gone numb and tingly, clutching desperately at Cain's shirt.
"I can't breathe," I gasp, the words barely audible. My heart hammers so violently I'm certain it will burst through my ribs. "I'm going to die. I can't—"
"You're not dying," Cain says firmly, his voice cutting through the roaring in my ears. He shifts me on his lap, turning me to face him. "Look at me, Mags. Right here."
I try to focus on his face, but it keeps blurring, swimming in and out of my vision. My lungs feel like they're collapsing, refusing to expand no matter how desperately I try to pull in air.
"I need you to breathe with me," Cain says, taking one of my hands and pressing it flat against his chest. I feel his steady heartbeat beneath my palm, strong and even.
My own heart races wildly against my ribs, like a trapped bird desperate to escape.
The apartment walls seem to close in, everything too bright, too loud, too much.
"I can't—" My voice breaks. I'm drowning in air, each breath more shallow than the last.
"Yes, you can," Cain says, his voice firm but gentle. His hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his chest. "Feel that? Match me. In for four, hold for four, out for four."
I try to focus, to count, but my thoughts scatter like marbles on a tile floor. Warren knows where I am. The flowers. The lilies. Always the lilies.
"He's going to—" I gasp, the words fragmenting as my lungs refuse to cooperate.
"He's not going to do anything," Cain interrupts, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest. "Not while I'm here. Not ever again."
His other hand cups my face, calloused thumb brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling. The rough texture of his skin against mine gives me something real to focus on. The pressure of his thumb on my cheek grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of panic.
"Focus on my heartbeat," he murmurs, voice dropping lower. "Nothing else matters right now. Just this."
I close my eyes, forcing my attention to the steady thump beneath my palm. Strong. Rhythmic. Alive. I try to match my breathing to his, struggling at first, each inhale shuddering through my chest.
"That's it," Cain encourages, his breath warm against my hair. "You're doing great, little rabbit."
Gradually, the vise around my lungs loosens. The tingling in my fingers subsides as oxygen returns to my bloodstream. The room stops spinning; the walls retreat to their proper places. I slump against Cain's chest, utterly drained, like someone's pulled my batteries out.
"He knows where I am," I whisper, voice hoarse from crying.
"Maybe." Cain's hand strokes my hair, fingers gently working through the tangles. "Or maybe he's just fishing. Sending flowers to every bar in the area until one hits."
I want to believe him, but I shake my head. "It can't be a coincidence. He always sends lilies. He knows what they do to me."
Cain's jaw tightens. "Then we deal with it."
"How?" I whisper, the exhaustion settling into my bones. "I've tried everything. The police, restraining orders, moving, hiding. Nothing works."
"You haven't tried me yet," Cain says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble that sends shivers down my spine despite my fear. "Warren doesn't know what he's walking into."
I want to believe him. Want to believe that this time might be different. That Cain's protection means something Warren can't overcome. But the doubt creeps in like poison, undermining my fragile hope.
"I can't keep doing this," I admit, my voice cracking. "I'm so tired of being afraid."
Cain shifts beneath me, reaching for something on the side table. The remote. He clicks a button, and the TV across the room flickers to life, casting a soft blue glow over us.
"What are you doing?" I ask, confused by the sudden change.
"Distracting you," he murmurs, settling back against the couch. "Come here."
He pulls me closer, positioning me against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat beneath my ear. The steady rhythm grounds me as the panic slowly recedes. On screen, an action movie plays; explosions and car chases create a white noise that fills the apartment.
"I don't need—" I start to protest, but my voice is weak, drained from crying.
"Shh," Cain says, his fingers threading through my hair. "Just watch."
I don't recognize the movie. Something with fast cars and improbable stunts. It doesn't matter. What matters is Cain's solid presence beneath me, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that my own breathing gradually matches.
"He can't get to you here," Cain whispers, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. "I won't let him."
I want to argue, to remind him of all the ways Warren has already found me, all the barriers he's already broken through. But I'm so tired. Bone-deep exhausted in a way sleep alone can't fix.
"Rest." The command slips through my consciousness like warm honey, his deep voice wrapping around me like a blanket. My eyelids grow heavy, each blink lasting longer than the last. The noise from the TV blurs into a distant hum as my breathing slows to match his steady rhythm.
I fight it at first, that creeping darkness. Warren is out there. He knows where I am. I should be planning, running, fighting.
But Cain's heartbeat beneath my ear drowns out the voice of fear. His fingers continue their gentle path through my hair, each stroke soothing away the tension until my muscles surrender one by one.
"I should…" The words die on my lips, lost to exhaustion.
"You should rest," Cain murmurs, his voice vibrating through his chest. "I've got you, little rabbit."
The weight of everything—the flowers, the panic attack, the weeks of running—crashes over me like a wave. My body gives in before my mind does, sinking deeper into his warmth. His arm tightens around me, secure but not confining.