Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Saint Cain
Ihad barely seen Cain all day.
He’s been buried in deliveries, stalking in and out of the bar like some inked-up shadow with a clipboard and zero patience. He left eggs and coffee on the table, a simple kiss on the head, and he was out the door.
Now it’s nearly time to open, and the apartment above the bar is too quiet. Cain’s still downstairs doing inventory or scowling at cases of whiskey. I haven’t laid eyes on him since the bar closed last night.
Since that almost-kiss.
Since I leaned in too close, and he didn’t move away.
I stare at the closet, still wearing one of his old t-shirts tied at the waist and a pair of boxer briefs I definitely did not ask permission to steal. And that’s when I see it.
The dress.
My dress.
Black, slinky, a little too short—hanging there like it’s been waiting for me to remember who I was before all of this. Before the fear. Before Warren.
I grin before I can stop myself.
And then I put it on.
The old me would've stopped there. But not tonight.
I sit at the dresser and pull out the makeup bag I haven't touched in months.
My hands remember what to do even if my brain hesitates.
Foundation first, smoothing away the shadows under my eyes, the constant reminders of sleepless nights.
I blend until my skin looks like mine again—not the pale, frightened version that's been staring back at me for too long.
Eyeshadow next. I choose the smoky palette, sweeping darkness across my lids, blending it upward until it looks dangerous. Eyeliner, thick and black, winged at the corners like war paint. Mascara that makes my lashes look like they could cause damage.
I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back. She has my face, but something else in her eyes. Something that's been missing.
"There you are," I whisper to myself.
My lips get the darkest red I own, applied with precision that feels like an act of defiance. I'm not hiding anymore.
I pull out the pair of black velvet boots from under the bed, my heartbeat quickening at the sight of them. They rise to my knees, with wicked, pointed heels that add four inches to my height. I haven't worn them since before Warren, before I became someone who hides.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I slide my bare legs into them one at a time, zipping them up slowly. The velvet hugs my calves like a second skin. I stand, testing my balance, remembering how to walk like I own the ground beneath me.
Back at the mirror, I study the overall effect.
The dress hangs a little loose on my frame—I've lost weight over the past few months of running and hiding.
I reach for the thin leather belt hanging on the closet door and thread it through the loops at my waist, cinching it tight.
The transformation is immediate—my waist narrows dramatically; the neckline drops lower, pushing my breasts up and creating cleavage I'd forgotten I had.
"Damn," I whisper to my reflection, turning to see how the dress hugs my curves from behind.
As I admire my reflection, I catch a glimpse of something behind me—Cain's flannel shirt tossed over the back of the chair.
Dark forest green with faded black checks, frayed at the cuffs from years of wear.
I've seen him in it dozens of times, the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal those tattooed forearms.
I smile, reaching for it without thinking. The dress suddenly feels too exposed, too vulnerable. I slip the flannel over it, the soft, worn fabric settling around me like armor. It smells like him—cedar and whiskey and that indefinable scent that's just Cain.
I leave it unbuttoned, letting it hang open over the dress.
The contrast works—dangerous femininity beneath rugged protection.
In the mirror, I look like someone new. Not the woman who's been running, not the woman who hid under Cain's bar counter, but someone stronger.
Someone who might actually survive this.
The flannel's too big, of course. The sleeves fall past my fingertips, and I roll them up to my elbows, mimicking the way Cain wears it. The green fabric makes my eyes look sharper, more intense. I look alive again.
My phone buzzes on the dresser. I pick it up, expecting Cain, but it's Hank.
*Bar's popping tonight. We could use you down here.*
My stomach flips. The packed bar means facing people—lots of people—while dressed like this. Like myself again. My palms grow damp as I stare at the message.
I take a deep breath. This is what I wanted, isn't it? To reclaim something of myself?
*Coming down*, I text back before I can change my mind.
I grab my lipstick for one final touch-up, my hand trembling slightly. The woman in the mirror looks both familiar and foreign—someone I used to know returning after a long absence. I slip my phone into the small pocket of my dress and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The stairwell feels longer tonight, each step down bringing me closer to exposure. The bass from the jukebox vibrates through the walls, growing louder as I approach. Voices and laughter filter up from below—Friday night in full swing.
My fingers hover over the doorknob. For a moment, I consider running back upstairs, washing off the makeup, and pulling on sweats instead. But I force myself to turn the knob and step through.
The noise hits me first—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. The bar is packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder around tables and against the counter. The Friday night crowd in full force.
I hesitate in the shadows by the kitchen door, suddenly nervous. My heart hammers against my ribs. The confidence I felt upstairs wavers.
But I have to do this. It's my job. And Cain is down here. And sweet Hank, who's covering for me.
I take a deep breath and step into the light.
The first person to notice me is a regular—Mike, I think his name is—seated at the end of the bar. His eyes widen, beer bottle freezing halfway to his lips. The guy next to him follows his gaze, and then another, until a ripple of awareness spreads through the closest patrons.
Then Hank sees me.
His eyes widen, glass pausing midway through polishing as he takes in my transformation. For a second, he just stares, then his weathered face breaks into a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"Well, look at you," he calls out over the noise of the bar, loud enough that several more heads turn in my direction. "Our girl's back in fighting form!"
I feel my cheeks flush hot under the sudden attention, but I lift my chin and stride toward the bar with as much confidence as I can muster.
The heels force me to walk taller, with my shoulders back and hips swaying slightly with each step.
I'd forgotten what it feels like to move this way—like I'm worth looking at, like I own the space I'm walking through.
"Sorry I'm late," I say as I reach the bar, slipping behind the counter next to Hank. "Got a little carried away upstairs."
Hank chuckles, giving me an appreciative once-over. "Worth the wait, kiddo. You clean up real nice." He leans in closer, lowering his voice. "Cain's gonna swallow his tongue when he sees you."
I laugh, but my stomach flips at the mention of Cain. I scan the crowded bar, searching for his tall figure among the sea of bodies.
"Where is he, anyway?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Office," Hank replies, jerking his thumb toward the back. "Going over invoices. Said not to bother him unless the place is on fire." He winks. "But I think you might qualify as an emergency worth interrupting for."
I roll my eyes, but can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "I'll let him work. We've got customers to serve."
I throw myself into the rhythm of the bar, mixing drinks and making change with practiced efficiency.
The familiar routine grounds me, even as I feel eyes following my movements.
I'm aware of how different I look tonight—how much more like myself—and it makes me stand taller, move with more confidence.
"You know, you should probably grab Cain," Hank says, sliding a beer down the bar. "Tell him we're slammed out here."
I glance at the growing crowd pressing against the bar. Three people are waving money, trying to get my attention at once.
"Doesn't he have work to do?" I ask, pouring two whiskeys simultaneously.
Hank chuckles, shaking his head. "Honey, I don't even work here. I'm just an old man helping out because I like the place." He wipes his hands on a bar rag. "But you've got a line forming, and I need to rest these bones. Go get the boss."
I hesitate, suddenly nervous at the thought of Cain seeing me like this. What if he thinks I'm trying too hard? What if he doesn't recognize this version of me?
"Go on," Hank urges with a knowing smile. "I'll hold down the fort for two more minutes. That's all my old back can take."
"Fine," I say, sliding the last drink across the counter. "I'll be right back."
I make my way through the crowd, aware of eyes following me. The office door is closed, a thin line of light seeping from beneath it. I hesitate, my knuckles hovering inches from the wood. My heart pounds so hard I swear I can hear it over the music.
I knock twice, sharp and quick.
No answer.
I knock again, louder this time.
"I said no interruptions." His voice comes through the door—that familiar, dangerous rumble, but edged with irritation.
I turn the knob anyway and step inside, closing it behind me.
Cain sits at his desk, hunched over a stack of invoices, pen in hand. He doesn't look up immediately. "Hank, I swear to God—"
Then he sees me.
The pen falls from his fingers. His eyes widen, then darken as they travel slowly from my face down to my velvet boots and back up again. His jaw tightens, that muscle in his cheek jumping beneath his stubble.
"Mags," he breathes, my name barely audible.