Chapter 11 Divine Intervention
Chapter eleven
Divine Intervention
It’s been three days since Warren crawled back into the shadows where he belongs.
Three days of silence.
Three days of Cain’s arms, Cain’s bed, Cain’s safety wrapped around me like a shield made of fire and steel.
The bar feels…different now. Not just safer, but sacred. Not because anything miraculous happened, but because Cain made it so. With his hands. With his teeth. With his vow that I’d never be alone again.
There are new cameras at every door. Weapons hidden in plain sight—beneath the register, in the freezer handle, taped under the bar top. Hank knows where they all are. So do the regulars. It's like they’ve all collectively agreed that I’m theirs to protect.
It should feel stifling.
It doesn’t.
It feels like armor.
Like peace.
Tonight, the music’s low, the crowd mellow.
Hank’s humming to himself as he wipes down the taps, and the usual crew filters in and out with warm smiles and quiet nods.
Cain’s been watching me from across the room all night—leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, mouth twitching like he knows some filthy secret I haven’t uncovered yet.
And maybe he does.
Because I’ve been watching him, too.
I feel it in the way my breath catches when he moves. In the way I keep twisting the gold chain around my neck, letting the little cross rest against my lips like it’s the only thing keeping me from begging out loud.
It’s been three days.
Three days of being held, protected, treasured.
Three days of whisper-soft touches and forehead kisses and sleeping tangled in his arms while he murmurs “mine” into the dark.
And now?
Now I want more.
Not gently. Not sweetly. I want to be ruined by the man who saved me.
And from the way Cain’s been looking at me all night?
He wants the exact same thing.
I'm midway through mixing a whiskey sour when Cain pushes off the wall. He moves with that predatory grace that makes my stomach flip, weaving between tables like he's got a destination in mind. When he reaches the bar, his eyes lock with mine.
"Need you in the office," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Now."
My pulse quickens. There's something in his tone—something dark and hungry that makes the heat pool low in my belly.
"Everything okay?" I ask, setting the half-mixed drink aside.
His only answer is a slight quirk of his lips. "Hank," he calls over his shoulder, "cover the bar for a minute."
Hank glances between us, understanding dawning on his weathered face. He waves us off with a knowing smirk. "Take your time."
I follow Cain through the back hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. When we reach the office door, he steps aside to let me enter first. I brush past him, feeling the heat of his body even without touching.
Cain follows me in, shutting the door with a soft click.
The lock clicks behind me, and in that instant, something shifts in the air between us.
One moment I'm standing in the middle of the office, heart thundering in my chest—the next, Cain's hands are on my waist, spinning me around and backing me up until my spine hits the edge of the desk.
His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. His arms plant on either side of me, fingers splayed on the wooden surface, effectively trapping me between solid oak and solid man.
"Three days," he growls, his breath hot against my neck. "Three days of watching you, wanting you, holding back."
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel the heat of him radiating through my clothes, the press of his hips against mine, the way his eyes have gone dark with hunger.
"I thought you were being a gentleman," I whisper, my voice catching when his nose grazes my jaw.
"I'm trying to be," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cradle my face. His thumb traces my bottom lip, rough and gentle all at once. "But you keep looking at me like that, and I'm starting to forget how."
"I don't want you to be a gentleman," I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath my palms. "Not tonight. Not ever."
His eyes darken, pupils expanding until there's barely any color left. "Tell me what you want, Mags." His voice is gravel and whiskey, rough around the edges but smooth going down.
"You," I breathe. "All of you."
That's all it takes.
His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate. Gone is the careful restraint of the past three days. This is Cain unleashed—all teeth and tongue and barely contained need. He kisses me like he's starving, like I'm the only sustenance that could possibly save him.
I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding up under my shirt to trace the bare skin of my back. Every touch brands me, claims me.
"Been thinking about this all day," he growls against my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. "Watching you behind that bar, smiling at those men. Wanting to drag you back here and remind you who you belong to."
His words send lightning through my veins. I gasp as his hands grip my thighs, lifting me onto the desk in one fluid motion. Papers scatter, but neither of us cares.
"Show me," I challenge, my voice barely above a whisper. "Remind me."
Cain's eyes flash dangerously. He steps between my legs, spreading them wider as his hands slide up my thighs. "You want to be reminded, little rabbit? You want me to show you exactly who you belong to?"
I nod, unable to form words as his fingers trace the waistband of my jeans. He makes quick work of the button and the zipper, his movements urgent yet controlled.
"Lift," he commands, and I raise my hips so he can tug the denim down my legs. The cool air hits my skin, making me shiver—or maybe it's the way he's looking at me, like I'm something precious and wild all at once.
"These too," he says, hooking his fingers into my underwear. "I want to see all of you," he says, his voice like gravel coated in honey as he pulls the lace away.
I'm bare beneath his gaze, vulnerable yet powerful as his eyes darken with naked hunger. He drops to his knees before me, and the sight of him there—this mountain of a man kneeling at my altar—steals my breath.
"Look at you," he whispers, his hands sliding reverently up my thighs. "Perfect. Fucking perfect."
His breath is warm against my skin as he leans in, pressing feather-light kisses to the inside of my knee, working his way up with agonizing slowness. Every touch is worship, every kiss a prayer. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses, looking up at me with those dark eyes.
"My little saint," he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence. "So good for me. So perfect."
The praise washes over me like holy water, cleansing away every doubt, every fear. In this moment, I am sacred ground, and Cain is a devoted pilgrim.
His tongue finds me, and I cry out, my head falling back as his mouth makes contact. The first stroke of his tongue is gentle—reverent—but it sets off fireworks behind my eyes. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him there as he worships me with his mouth.
"So sweet," he groans against me, the vibration sending shivers up my spine. "Fucking ambrosia. Divine thing."
Each word of praise washes over me like warm honey, making me arch and tremble. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider as he devours me with slow, deliberate strokes. I'm helpless beneath his touch, coming undone with every flick of his tongue.
"That's it, little saint," he murmurs, looking up at me with dark, hungry eyes. "Let me hear you. Let everyone know who's making you feel this good."
I can't hold back the moan that tears from my throat when he slides a finger inside me, curling it just right while his tongue circles my most sensitive spot. My hips buck against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he's building with such expert precision.
"Cain," I gasp, my voice barely recognizable. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asks.
"Please make me yours," I whisper, my voice breaking with need. "Mark me. Claim me. I want to feel you everywhere."
His eyes darken at my words, pupils blown wide with desire. He rises slowly, his body unfolding like something dangerous and beautiful. The tattoos across his chest peek through his partially unbuttoned shirt—sacred words inked on unholy skin.
"My little saint," he growls, leaning in to capture my mouth in a bruising kiss. "So perfect for me. So good."
Each word of praise sends heat flooding through me. I arch into his touch as his hands slide up my sides, pushing my shirt higher until I'm exposed to him. The way he looks at me—like I'm something sacred, something to be worshipped—makes me tremble.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, tracing the cross that hangs between my breasts. "The saint and the sinner. You make me want to be better, but God help me, I want to corrupt you too."
His fingers trace the gold chain, following it down to where the cross rests against my skin. The contrast of his ink-marked hands against my pale chest makes it feel like a painting—sacred and blasphemous all at once.
“You don’t even know, do you?” he rasps, voice a low thunder against my throat. “What you do to a man like me.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is nod—barely—until his hand cups the back of my neck and he brings our foreheads together.
“You’re the only thing in this whole rotten world that feels pure.” He kisses my closed eyelids, one and then the other. “And I’m gonna make you mine, little saint. Right here. Right now.”
“Please,” I whisper, the word slipping out between shaking breaths. “Make me yours.”
His mouth is on mine in a heartbeat—urgent, claiming, devastating.
He stands, towering over me, eyes dark with hunger and something dangerously close to reverence.
“You sure?” he asks, voice a low growl against my cheek.
I nod, too breathless to speak.