Chapter 6 #2
I feel heat rise to my cheeks as Cain's hand presses slightly firmer against my back. "What's good today?" he asks, smoothly changing the subject.
"For you two? The lamb makloubeh with extra pine nuts," Nadia declares. "And knafeh for dessert. Trust me."
"Two, then," Cain says, pulling out his wallet. "And whatever you're drinking," he adds, glancing at me.
"Mint lemonade sounds perfect," I say, eyeing the glass jars of muted green liquid.
We order and find a small table near the edge of the park where a narrow river cuts through, its surface reflecting the string lights overhead.
The wooden bench creaks beneath us as Cain sits next to me instead of across from me.
The wooden bench is small, forcing us to share the narrow space.
Our thighs press together, his solid warmth against mine.
The river gurgles nearby, a gentle soundtrack to the bustling food park.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I nod, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. "Yeah," I say, surprised by how much I mean it. "This is nice."
The string lights overhead cast golden patterns across his face, softening the hard edges.
Up close, I notice things I hadn't before—a small scar near his hairline, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, how his eyes aren't just brown but flecked with amber when the light hits them just right.
"You're staring, little rabbit," he murmurs, that dangerous half-smile playing at his lips.
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Just admiring the view."
His eyebrow arches in surprise, and then he laughs—a real laugh that transforms his entire face. "Try this," Cain says, scooping up some of the fragrant rice and lamb onto his fork and holding it toward me.
I hesitate only briefly before leaning forward, accepting the bite from his hand. The flavors explode on my tongue—warm spices, tender lamb, nutty rice.
"Oh my god," I murmur after swallowing. "That's incredible."
Cain's eyes darken as he watches my reaction, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips. "Told you."
"You're right about that," I say, savoring the lingering taste of spices on my tongue.
The night unfolds around us in a tapestry of light and sound.
Families come and go, the crowd shifting like tides as we remain at our little table by the river, talking about everything and nothing.
For the first time in months, I feel normal—just a woman enjoying dinner with a man who makes her laugh. Not a victim. Not prey. Just me.
"So," I say, licking the last bit of honey from the knafeh off my fork, "how does a man with your particular skill set end up knowing about Palestinian comfort food?"
Cain watches my tongue trace the tines of my fork, his eyes darkening slightly before he answers. "Nadia's brother was in Stateville with me. Good man in a bad place. I kept him safe inside. When I got out, she insisted on feeding me whenever I stopped by."
"Saint Cain," I tease, bumping my shoulder against his. "Protector of the innocent, connoisseur of street food."
"Trust me, little rabbit, I'm far from a saint." His voice drops lower, that dangerous rumble that sends heat racing through my veins. His eyes lock with mine, intense and searching. "Saints don't think the things I'm thinking right now."
The air between us shifts, charged with electricity. My pulse quickens as his gaze drops to my lips.
"And what exactly are you thinking?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "That you're the most wicked girl I've ever met, walking into my bar with a gun and those eyes that see right through me." His lips brush against my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. "And that I like it far more than I should."
I turn my face toward his, our lips nearly touching. "Maybe I am wicked," I murmur, surprising myself with my boldness. "Maybe that's exactly what I need to be."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip. For a heartbeat, I think he's going to kiss me. Instead, he pulls back slightly, eyes dark with something that makes my stomach flip.
"We need to get back," he says suddenly, checking his watch. "Bar opens in thirty."
Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water. I'd almost forgotten about The Pulpit, about Warren, about everything beyond this moment.
"Right," I manage, pulling back slightly. "Time to be a responsible bartender."
Cain stands, offering his hand to help me up.
His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and solid, and he doesn't let go as we weave through the thinning crowd toward his car.
The night air has cooled, bringing goosebumps to my arms. Without a word, Cain pulls off his sweatshirt and puts it over my head.
It's still warm from his body, heavy with his scent.
"Thanks," I murmur, pulling it tighter around me.
He opens the passenger door for me, a small gesture that feels strangely intimate after everything we've shared.
As I slide into the seat, our eyes meet again, and that current of electricity passes between us.
Neither of us speaks about what almost happened at the table. What might still happen, given time.
Cain pulls out of the parking lot with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift between us. I watch his profile as he drives, the streetlights casting alternating patterns of light and shadow across his face.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For dinner. For the shooting lesson. For…" I trail off, not sure how to finish. For making me feel safe? For seeing me as strong when I felt weak? For touching me like I'm something precious instead of something broken?
"Anytime, little rabbit." His voice is soft in the darkness of the car. His fingers drum once on the gearshift, then slide over to cover my hand. "For the record, you didn't need my help with the shooting. That was all you."
I turn my hand over, letting our palms meet. His skin is rough against mine, calloused from years of work and fighting. I trace the scars across his knuckles with my thumb, feeling each ridge and valley.
"I'm starting to think I'm not the person I thought I was," I admit softly.
Cain's fingers tighten around mine. "You're exactly who you've always been, Mags. You just forgot for a while."
The BMW pulls into the alley behind The Pulpit, headlights illuminating the back entrance before he cuts the engine. Neither of us moves to get out. The silence between us feels charged, heavy with possibility.
"We should go in," I say, though I make no move to pull my hand from his.
"We should," he agrees, but instead of letting go, he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The simple gesture sends electricity racing up my arm.
Time suspends in the dark car. Cain leans closer, his eyes darkening as they drop to my lips.
My heart hammers against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears.
This is dangerous—more dangerous than holding a gun, more dangerous than running from Warren.
But I find myself leaning in anyway, drawn to him like gravity.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. I can feel his breath against my lips, warm and inviting. The space between us charges with electricity, a current I can almost taste.
"Mags," he whispers, my name like a prayer on his lips.
I close my eyes, tilting my face up to his, surrendering to whatever this is between us. His lips barely brush against mine—
A sharp rap on the window makes me jump back, heart leaping into my throat.
"Jesus," I gasp, heart leaping into my throat.
Cain curses under his breath, his expression darkening as he glances toward the sound. Through the tinted windows, I can make out a silhouette standing beside the car.
Cain rolls down the window with controlled precision, his jaw tight.
"Evening, kids. Sorry to interrupt," Hank says, not looking sorry at all. His eyes crinkle at the corners with barely suppressed amusement. "But we've got thirsty customers waiting inside. Including me."
Cain groans, his head falling back against the headrest. "Your timing, old man."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and light—a sound I barely recognize as my own. I press my fingers to my lips, trying to contain it, but it spills out anyway.
"Something funny, little rabbit?" Cain asks, his eyes finding mine in the dim car.
"Your face," I manage between giggles. "You look like someone stole your favorite gun."
His expression softens at my laughter, the frustration melting into something warmer. "You should do that more often," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"What? Laugh at you?"
"Just laugh," he says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "It suits you."
Hank clears his throat pointedly, reminding us of his presence. "Bar's not going to open itself, kids."
Cain sighs and opens his door. "We're coming, old man. Don't get your suspenders in a twist."
I climb out of the passenger side, still wearing Cain's sweatshirt. It swims on me, swallowing me whole, but I don't care. It's warm and smells like him, and right now that's exactly what I want wrapped around me.
Hank winks at me as I pass him, heading for the back entrance. "You two took your sweet time."
"Shooting practice," I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm getting pretty good."
"I bet you are," Hank says with a knowing smile that makes me blush harder.
Cain unlocks the back door, holding it open for me. As I pass him, he leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. "We'll finish that later," he murmurs, his voice a promise that sends shivers down my spine.
The bar is already humming with energy when we step inside.
A handful of regulars look up, raising their glasses in greeting.
The familiar scent of whiskey and wood polish wraps around me, no longer foreign but comforting.
I slip behind the counter, tying an apron around my waist but keeping Cain's sweatshirt on.
As I pour drinks and make change, I catch Cain watching me from across the bar.
His gaze holds mine for a moment, something unspoken passing between us in the dim bar light.
I feel my body respond—warmth spreading through my chest, my skin prickling with awareness.
I've been running for so long that this feeling catches me off guard—this desire to stay, to be seen, to be touched.
I turn away first, busying myself with wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the electricity still humming through my veins.
The almost-kiss in the car replays in my mind, Cain's breath against my lips, the promise in his eyes.
My fingers brush my mouth unconsciously, remembering how close we'd come.
"You okay over there, Mags?" Hank's voice breaks through my thoughts, amusement dancing in his weathered face.
I clear my throat, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Just fine," I manage, sliding him a fresh whiskey.
"Sure you are," he says with a knowing wink. "That's why you've been wiping the same spot for five minutes."
I glance down at the counter, perfectly clean beneath my cloth, and laugh. "Busted."