Chapter 6
Chapter six
Lessons in Violence and Resurrection
The junkyard reeks of rust, sweat, and bad decisions.
Cain says it’s the safest place to learn how to shoot—no one cares what kind of noise you make out here. The fence is bent in three places. There’s a tire fire smoldering somewhere in the distance. A busted station wagon with moss growing on the hood is today’s target practice dummy.
Perfect ambiance for a resurrection.
I stand with my boots in the gravel, Glock in my hand, and every nerve in my body screaming that I shouldn’t be holding it. Cain stands behind me, not touching, just there, like a shadow with tattoos.
“You’re not prey,” he says, voice calm. Like it’s a fact. Like gravity.
“You just forgot you have teeth.”
I snort. “Pretty sure I left those in therapy.”
Cain steps forward, reaches around me without touching, and adjusts the way I hold the gun. His breath brushes my ear. My skin flinches like it doesn’t know the difference between fear and something else.
“Front sight. Slow your breathing. You control the shot, not the other way around.”
The first bullet misses everything.
The second one ricochets off the fender like a bad punchline.
By the fourth, I hit metal.
By the tenth, Cain lets out a low whistle.
“Damn, little sinner,” he murmurs. “You been lying to me?”
I grin.
It’s the first time I smile like it means something. Like I mean something.
“I’m a quick learner,” I say.
"Deadly aim and a quick mind," Cain says, his voice dropping lower as he steps closer. "You're the whole package, Rabbit."
I feel heat rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. His eyes linger on mine a beat too long, and something electric passes between us. I'm suddenly aware of how close he's standing, the scent of him—cedar and gunpowder—wrapping around me.
"You trying to flirt with me in a junkyard, Cain?" I ask, one eyebrow raised as I eject the magazine and check the chamber like he taught me.
He doesn't back away. Instead, his lips curl into that dangerous half-smile that makes my stomach flip. "Is it working?"
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "Maybe. But your timing could use some work. Most men buy a girl dinner before taking her shooting."
"I'm not most men," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers graze my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. "And you're not most women."
My breath catches in my throat. I should step back. This is dangerous territory. But I don't. Instead, I lean slightly into his touch, my body making decisions my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
"No," I say softly. "I'm not most women anymore."
His eyes darken, a hungry flicker visible in their depths. His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, thumb brushing against my pulse point. I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is racing.
"You never were," he murmurs. "Even broken, you shine brighter than most."
The words hit me square in the chest, stealing my breath. No one has ever seen me this way—as strong despite my damage, not weak because of it. I'm not sure what to do with this version of myself reflected in his eyes.
"I'm not broken," I whisper, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice.
"No," Cain agrees, his lips curving into that rare, genuine smile. "You're not."
Something shifts between us, the air charged with possibility. I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies almost touch—his hand on my neck, our shoulders nearly brushing, the scant inches between our faces.
My new phone buzzes in my back pocket, cutting through the charged moment between us.
Cain's hand drops away from my neck as I pull it out, but he doesn't step back. The screen lights up with a number that makes my stomach drop.
Mom.
After all this time. After the courtroom. After her testimony. After choosing Warren over her own daughter.
The phone continues vibrating in my palm, her number flashing like a warning. My finger hovers over the screen, trembling slightly. Part of me wants to answer, to scream, to demand how she could betray me like that. Another part wants to hear her voice, to have her tell me it was all a mistake.
I can't do either.
My throat closes up. The ringing seems to get louder, more insistent. The junkyard around me blurs as tears sting my eyes.
"Mags?" Cain's voice sounds far away. "You okay?"
I shake my head, unable to form words. The phone keeps ringing, relentless. Five rings. Six. Seven.
"Who is it?" he asks, stepping closer again.
"My mother," I finally manage, my voice a whisper. The ringing stops abruptly. I stare at the screen, my heart pounding against my ribs, and then a notification appears.
A text message. From her.
*We need to speak about your current situation.*
My fingers go numb. The phone nearly slips from my grasp. I know exactly what "situation" she's referring to—not my stalker, not the danger I'm in, but the fact that I'm hiding. That I'm not playing by Warren's rules anymore.
"What does she want?" Cain asks, his voice cutting through the static in my head.
I turn the phone so he can see the message. His jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath the stubble.
“She wants to talk. She’ll make me out as if I’m the crazy one. Drag me back to that hellhole.”
Cain steps closer, his presence a shield between me and the phone still clutched in my trembling hand. He gently takes it from me, turns it off completely, and slips it into his pocket.
"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and certain. "She can't touch you. Warren can't touch you. Not while I'm around."
"You don't know them," I whisper. "My mother has connections. Warren has money, influence. They'll—"
"They'll do nothing," Cain interrupts, his hands coming up to frame my face. His palms are warm against my skin, callused thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize I was shedding. "I won't let anybody hurt you again. Not him. Not her. Not anyone."
I search his eyes, looking for any sign of doubt, any flicker of uncertainty. There is none. Just that steady, unwavering gaze that's become my anchor in the storm.
"How can you be so sure?" My voice breaks on the question.
"Because everything I care about, I keep safe. Always have,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble that vibrates through my chest. "And I protect what's important to me, little rabbit.
" His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
For a moment, we stand there in the junkyard, the world narrowing to just us.
Then his expression shifts, softens slightly. "Let's get dinner. There's a little hole-in-the-wall food truck not far from here. Best tacos in the city."
The abrupt change of subject throws me, but I welcome it. Something normal. Something that doesn't involve my mother, Warren, or the growing tension between Cain and me.
"Tacos?" I manage a small smile, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of my hand. "That's your solution to everything?"
"Not everything." His lips quirk up at one corner. "But they've never made a situation worse."
I holster my gun at my back, nodding. "Lead the way."
The anxiety that gripped me moments ago hasn't completely disappeared, but it's retreated to a manageable hum beneath my skin.
The BMW's engine purrs to life as Cain pulls out of the junkyard. We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the city lights growing brighter as we head back toward civilization.
His car glides into a riot of colors and smells.
The food truck park is alive with string lights crisscrossing overhead, creating a canopy of stars against the darkening sky.
I've never been to this part of town before—it's a maze of vendors, each truck painted brighter than the last, their names spelled out in neon and string lights.
"This place is incredible," I say, taking in the chaos. Families crowd around picnic tables, couples lean into each other on benches, and groups of friends laugh over paper plates piled high with food.
"Best kept secret in the city," Cain says as he parks the car at the edge of the lot. "Fifteen different cuisines, all better than any restaurant with cloth napkins."
When we step out, the scent hits me—spices and smoke, grilling meat and frying oil, sweet and savory all mixed together in a heady perfume that makes my mouth water instantly.
"Where do we even start?" I ask, turning in a slow circle. There are so many options, I feel momentarily overwhelmed. Mexican, Thai, Korean, Palestinian, Mediterranean—each truck promises something delicious.
"I know just the place," Cain says, placing his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd.
His touch is light but purposeful, his fingers spanning the curve of my spine. I don't flinch away. Instead, I lean into it slightly, the pressure both grounding and electric. We weave between families and couples; the noise and lights swirling around us like we're in our own little bubble.
The Palestinian food truck is painted in vibrant reds and greens, with string lights outlining its roof. The scent of sumac and za'atar immediately draws me in.
"This one," I say, pointing to the truck with its hand-painted sign reading "Olive & Thyme." The menu board lists items I've never tried—musakhan, maqluba, knafeh. My mouth waters just reading the descriptions.
"Good choice," Cain says, his voice close to my ear. His hand remains on my lower back as we approach the counter, a steady presence that makes me feel oddly safe among the crowd.
A woman with dark curls and warm eyes greets us from behind the counter. "Salaam, habibi!" she exclaims, reaching across the counter to clasp his hand. "Where have you been hiding?"
"Running a bar keeps me busy, Nadia," Cain replies with that rare, genuine smile I've only seen a few times. "This is Mags."
Nadia's warm eyes shift to me, sparkling with interest. "Ah, finally bringing someone special to try my food. She must be important."