Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Thorns in the Sanctuary
We’ve fallen into a rhythm.
Not perfect, not polished, but ours.
He passes behind me to grab the whiskey, and his hand skims my lower back—just enough to make me straighten.
Not an accident.
“You’re in my way,” I murmur, but I don’t move.
His voice is warm at my neck as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
“And yet, I don’t hear you telling me to move, little rabbit.”
I twist the cap off a beer bottle, hand it to Hank at the end of the bar, and try not to grin like a damn fool.
I’m not used to this.
The flirting. The attention. The way it curls around my ribs like something alive.
Cain leans one elbow on the bar, eyes watching me as I move around.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he says low.
I raise a brow. “You just figuring that out, barkeep?”
He huffs something that might be a laugh.
Cain brushes past again, this time closer. His hand lingers at my waist like a secret—just a whisper of a touch, but it sings through me anyway. Like he’s claiming space he hasn’t asked permission for, but I’m not stopping him.
“You flirting or just making it harder to work?” I ask, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Can’t it be both?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer.
Mostly because I don’t trust myself to sound unaffected.
From his usual perch at the bar, Hank clears his throat loud enough to startle both of us.
“Well, if this ain’t the slowest damn service I’ve ever seen,” he says, grinning like a cat who’s got the gossip of the year. “You two keep making eyes at each other like that, and I’m gonna need a mop for the floor.”
Cain doesn’t miss a beat. “You want your beer or a bucket, Hank?”
Hank barks a laugh. “Don’t matter. I’ve had better nights with less foreplay.”
I snort. “Jesus, Hank.”
“Don’t bring him into this,” Hank says, winking. “He wouldn’t approve of the way you’re lookin’ at your boss.”
Cain slides Hank his beer, then turns back to me, gaze lazy and hot.
“Good thing I don’t give a damn what He thinks.”
That shuts me up.
Shuts Hank up too.
The only sounds are the fizz of a beer being poured and my pulse slamming against my ribs.
Another regular—a wiry man named Boone who always tips in quarters and war stories—leans across the counter, squinting at me like he’s trying to place me.
“You new?” he asks, voice gravel and charm. “’Cause if I’d seen a smile like that before, I woulda remembered it.”
I arch a brow, biting back a smirk as I hand him his usual. “Pretty sure I served you three nights ago.”
Boone squints harder. “Nah. That girl didn’t smile.”
That makes me laugh—full, sudden, and real. I forget to be careful with it, and it bursts out anyway. A little too loud. A little too free. I don’t care.
Cain glances over from the taps, and the look he gives me?
Fire.
Like it’s his favorite sound. Like he built the damn laugh himself.
I duck my head, but I’m still grinning. Still feeling it in my chest.
The dress clings in the right places. The boots click like they’ve got purpose. Cain’s flannel is rolled at my sleeves, and his eyes—God, his eyes—they never really leave me.
And for a second, just one stupid heartbeat, I forget I’m broken.
I just feel…wanted.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
Not the friendly kind. Not the sound that means tips and familiar faces and good nights.
This one slices.
I freeze. Laughter dying on my lips like it was never there at all. Like I made it up.
“Magdalena.”
My full name. Sharpened like a blade. Every syllable dipped in disapproval.
I turn slowly, heartbeat banging against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. And there she is.
Caroline Holloway. My mother.
Perfect hair. White coat. Diamonds flashing like threats. And eyes—those same damn eyes—that skim the room like she’s looking for someone to sue.
Her gaze lands on Cain. Lingers.
And wrinkles in disgust.
“You’ve downgraded, I see,” she says, voice loud enough to carry, sharp enough to wound. “From doctors to… whatever this is.”
Cain doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just folds his arms across his chest, ink flexing with the motion.
“Afternoon,” he says flatly. “You lost?”
Caroline laughs, sharp and humorless. “I’m here for my daughter. Clearly, she’s having some kind of episode.”
The bar is dead silent.
Even Boone stops chewing his ice.
And me?
I’m frozen. Wrapped in ice. Shame blooming like frostbite.
All that light I felt just moments ago? Gone.
Cain moves closer. His hand brushes my lower back—barely there—but it anchors me. Reminds me I’m still standing.
Caroline turns her eyes on me now, all sugar-laced poison.
“I’m not surprised you ended up in a place like this,” she says, tone cool and condescending. “Bars and boys with tattoos. Really, Magdalena?”
I don’t speak. I can’t.
“You always had such potential,” she continues, smiling like this is a polite conversation and not a dismantling.
“We sacrificed so much for your education. For your future. And this is what you do with it? You run away. Hide. Play pretend in some whiskey-soaked hellhole with men who think soap is optional.”
A low ripple of murmurs runs through the bar, but no one says a word.
Cain’s jaw ticks. His fingers flex behind the bar.
Caroline waves a perfectly manicured hand toward me, like she’s brushing off lint.
“And look at you. That dress? Really? Trying so hard to be something you’re not. Playing house with the help?” Caroline sighs, dramatic and exasperated. “You always did crave attention. Always had to be the center of it. And now—what? You think hiding behind a bar makes you brave?”
I blink fast, refusing the sting in my eyes.
“You think this man is going to save you?” She gestures at Cain like he’s a stain. “He won’t. He’ll use you. Just like the others.”
I flinch.
“Warren was right. You need help.”
The moment that name leaves her lips, I feel it—something inside me snaps like brittle glass underfoot.
“No,” I say, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare.”
She tilts her head. “He told us everything, darling. About your… delusions. The accusations. The paranoia. He begged us to get you help, but you ran instead. You always run.”
“I said don’t you dare,” I spit.
She keeps going, oblivious. “He cared for you. Still does, probably. If you’d just listened to reason—”
“I SAID DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!”
It echoes. Loud. Cracks through the air like lightning splitting bone.
My mother recoils. A collective hush sweeps the bar, thick and absolute.
“I am not your broken project,” I hiss, tears now spilling down my cheeks unchecked. “And I am not his victim anymore.”
My voice trembles, but I don’t stop.
“You let him hurt me. You believed him over me. You turned your back when I begged you for help—and now you want to parade in here and call me delusional?”
I step forward, chest heaving, rage cracking through the ice in my veins.
“You don’t get to rewrite what happened because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to say his name here. Not ever.”
She stares at me, stunned.
And then, quietly, I add, “You don’t know me anymore. You never did.”
My mother sneers. “I suppose this is Warren’s fault, too?”
My spine locks. Air leaves the room.
She smiles like she’s just played a winning card. “That man believed in you. Gave you a career. And you repay him with false accusations and tantrums.”
The world tilts.
Cain stiffens behind me.
“He was my boss,” I hiss. “He stalked me. Followed me home. Broke into my flat, Mom—”
“Please,” she scoffs, waving it off like gossip at brunch. “You always did confuse attention with affection.”
That’s it. That’s the match on gasoline.
“I confuse—?” My laugh cracks out of me, feral and disbelieving. “No, you just taught me that abuse wrapped in a bow was still a gift if it came from someone successful.”
Caroline’s eyes flash. “Don’t you dare put this on me—”
“Then who should I put it on?” I shout. “The woman who told me to keep quiet, not make waves? Who said it would ruin his life if I reported him? You made me a target and then blamed me for getting hit!”
Her cheeks flush red.
And then—
SLAP.
The slap rings through the bar like a gunshot.
My cheek blazes. Not just from the sting, but from the humiliation. The shame. The goddamn rage.
And then Cain moves.
Not with violence, but with velocity. A blur of ink and fury as he steps between us, jaw tight, fists clenched so hard the tendons pop.
Caroline flinches. Actually flinches, like some part of her finally realizes she went too far.
But he doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t need to.
His voice is low. Controlled. Lethal.
“Leave. Now.”
Caroline straightens like she might argue—but then she sees everyone else.
Hank is standing. Boone too. So are half the regulars, eyes sharp and unfriendly. Silent. Watching. Choosing.
And none of them are choosing her.
Cain doesn’t break his stare. Doesn’t even blink. “Before I forget how civilized I’m trying to be.”
My mother adjusts her purse on her shoulder, lifts her chin like royalty in exile.
She sneers at Cain one last time.
“You think this is love?” she scoffs, voice sugary venom. “It’s a trauma bond, darling. He just likes broken things he can keep in cages.”
Cain doesn’t move. But I feel the storm building behind his stillness.
Caroline reaches the door. Pauses. Looks over her shoulder at me with that brittle, polished smile.
“You’ll see. He’ll leave you, too. They always do.”
Then she’s gone. And the silence she leaves behind is deafening.
Hank clears his throat, loud enough to break the tension.
Then, with that bark of authority only old men and ex-marines can pull off, he says:
“Alright, pay your tabs and piss off. Show’s over.”
There’s no protest. Just the soft scrape of stools and the quiet clink of bills being dropped. No one looks at me. No one dares.
Hank gives Cain a single nod—respectful. Grateful.
And then we’re alone.
My breath catches, and I realize I’m shaking. Not from fear. From everything. From all of it.
Cain crouches behind the bar, grabbing the first aid kit as he turns to me.
His fingers are careful, so damn careful, as he cleans the sting on my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I—I didn’t know she’d—”
Cain shakes his head. Soft but fierce. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for her sins.”
He tears a strip of gauze and wraps it slowly. Tenderly. Anchoring me back to the moment.
I blink at the heat behind my eyes, but it’s useless. The tears fall anyway.
And then—God.
He leans in, so close I can smell the whiskey and smoke on him, and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “As long as I breathe, you’re safe.”
Cain doesn’t say anything when he helps me to my feet. Just loops an arm around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world and guides me through the back hallway, away from the bar, away from the shattered pieces I’m pretending not to be. To the sweet solace of the apartment upstairs.
I expect him to lead me up to my room.
He doesn’t.
Instead, we stop at his door.
He opens it like it’s not a big deal. Like I’ve always belonged there.
“Cain—” My voice cracks. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He turns to face me, eyes burning with something softer than his rage but twice as dangerous. “But I want to.”
There’s no argument in me. No strength left to fight it. Not when the air smells like him. Not when the lights are low and warm and his bed is made like he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight.
He helps me sit on the edge, then crouches again. Same as he did behind the bar. Like a man ready to serve penance.
His hand brushes over my thigh—gentle, grounding.
“You sleep here tonight,” he says, voice low, rough.
Cain doesn’t ask. He just moves—quiet and patient, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
He crosses the room and pulls open a drawer. Grabs a black T-shirt. Soft. Worn. Smells like him. When he turns back, I’m still crying—quiet, shaking sobs that I can’t seem to choke down.
“I got you,” he murmurs, stepping close.
His fingers graze the zipper on my dress, and he pauses—asking without asking.
I nod.
He moves slow, careful, reverent. The dress slides off like a dead weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying. He doesn’t look at me like a man undressing a woman. He looks at me like a man unwrapping a wound he intends to heal.
The T-shirt goes over my head. It hangs to my thighs. Cain tugs the hem gently, like he’s smoothing the pain away.
“You okay?”
I shake my head.
His jaw tightens, but he nods like he expected the answer.
“Okay,” he says. “You don’t have to be.”
Then he pulls back the covers. Helps me climb in. Tucks the blanket around me like I’m something worth protecting. I curl into the sheets, still shaking.
Cain turns off the light.
But he doesn’t leave.
He climbs in behind me—slow, like approaching a wounded animal. One arm wraps around my waist. One hand finds mine and doesn’t let go.
And for the first time in years, I fall asleep in someone’s arms. Not because I want to. Because I need to.
Because tonight, I am small, bruised, and broken.
And Cain Devlin is the only place that feels safe.