Chapter 12 Psalm for the Broken Girl
Chapter twelve
Psalm for the Broken Girl
The last few patrons stumble out into the night, laughter echoing down the street like a fading hymn. The door swings shut behind them with a jingle of the bell, and just like that—we’re alone.
Cain tosses the keys on the counter and stretches, spine cracking, tattoos flexing across his knuckles. He’s still wrecked in the best way. Hair messy from my fingers. Collar skewed from where I tugged it. Eyes darker than sin and far more addictive.
He catches me watching him and smirks.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m dragging you back into the office.”
“Can’t walk straight as it is,” I mutter.
Cain grins like a wolf and moves behind the bar to kill the lights. The glow from the sign outside bleeds through the front windows, casting soft pinks and reds across the tables, like stained glass and spilled secrets.
Hank wipes down the last section of the bar with slow, methodical strokes, then sets the rag aside. He glances at me, then at Cain, his eyes steady and unreadable for a beat.
“You alright, Mags?” he asks gently, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He gives a small, satisfied grunt and grabs his keys.
“You deserve good,” he says, pausing at the door. “And safe.”
Cain looks up, something quiet passing between them.
Then—
Headlights sweep across the front of the bar, slow and deliberate. A familiar engine growls like a warning.
I freeze. My whole body locks up, breath turning to stone in my lungs.
Cain is behind me in an instant. His arms wrap around me like armor, warm and unyielding.
“It’s just a car,” he murmurs against my temple. But we both know whose car it is.
Warren.
“He can’t hurt you,” Cain says, voice low and carved from iron. “Not with me here.”
I don’t move.
He presses closer, one hand flattening over my ribs. “You’ve got your very own hellhound now, little rabbit. I bite back.”
He kisses the top of my head—soft, reverent, like a benediction wrapped in blood and fire.
But it doesn’t stop the shaking in my hands.
Doesn’t stop the way my mind scrambles to every horrible possibility, faster than I can catch it.
Every time I let my guard down—even a little—he finds a crack to crawl through. Warren always knows how to worm his way back in. A shadow with teeth. A ghost that refuses to stay dead.
I hate that I flinched. Hate that he still has that kind of power.
Cain’s warmth should be enough. His touch, his voice, his arms wrapped around me like a fortress. But trauma doesn’t give a damn about safety. About logic. About promises whispered against skin.
My throat tightens. The air in my lungs shrinks.
I want to feel safe.
But it’s like trying to cup water in my hands—no matter how tight I hold on, it always slips through.
Cain brushes his mouth against my temple again, gentler this time. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re allowed to feel it. The fear. The anger. All of it.”
I nod, barely. The movement takes effort, like I’m trying to nod through molasses.
He shifts so we’re face to face, his eyes shadowed in the dim bar light. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Mags. Not here. Not ever.”
A tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it. Cain catches it with the pad of his thumb.
“I’m trying,” I murmur. “I really am.”
“I know.” His voice is rough with something that isn’t pity—it’s fury on my behalf. And something softer, deeper, just for me. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
“I know,” I whisper back.
I lean into him, forehead against his chest. His heart beats slow and steady beneath my cheek, an anchor in the storm. And for just a moment, I let it hold me.
“That’s my girl.”
His voice could bless or damn. Tonight, it does both.
“You think I’m good, Mags?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I’m not. I never was. I never will be.”
His hand slides up, fingers curling around the side of my throat—not choking, not quite. Just there. Just his.
“I’m the kind of man mothers pray their daughters never meet. The kind who doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop.”
His grip tightens the barest bit. “I’ve done awful things. Will do worse. And I’d do every single one again if it meant keeping you breathing.”
My heart is thundering. It should terrify me. It doesn’t. It makes me feel alive. Like something ancient and wicked is cracking open inside me.
“I’ll burn the whole damn city to ash if it ever touches you again.”
His mouth drags down to my neck, voice rough and reverent. “I’ll carve your name into every grave if that’s what it takes to give you peace.”
I shudder, but it’s not from fear. Not anymore.
“I’m not your salvation, little sinner,” he breathes, pressing his lips over my pulse. “I’m your reckoning.”
His words crawl over my skin like smoke, seeping into every crack Warren left behind.
They don’t frighten me.
They free me.
Because when Cain talks about ruin, I know he means mine, yes—but only to rebuild me stronger. Sharper.
Unbreakable.
There’s no softness in his gaze now, only the firelight reflection of a man who’s already made peace with damnation—as long as I make it out alive.
And suddenly, the fear doesn’t feel like a shackle.
It feels like a fuse.
“I used to think safety meant hiding,” I think, the realization clawing its way up from some place deep and raw. “Staying small. Quiet. Out of the way.”
But Cain doesn’t want me silent.
He wants me so loud the world shakes.
His hand traces the column of my neck again—this time in worship. This time in promise.
As if he’s reminding me I have a weapon built into my very spine. That I could snap jaws with this throat, scream the sky down, drag hell to my doorstep, and laugh while it burns.
His lips are at my ear again. “Say the word, and I’ll teach you how to end every monster that ever touched you.”
And I do. I say it.
Not soft. Not shy. Not anymore.
“I want to learn to fight back.”
Cain raises his eyebrow, slow and deliberate.
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he’s proud. Like he’s hungry.
But he waits.
I lift my chin, voice steady even though my ribs still rattle from the fear.
“I need to learn how to defend myself.”
His eyes flare. Just slightly. Like I just handed him a sacred offering.
He nods once. “Okay. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Then, quieter—deadlier—he leans in. His breath brushes my ear like a benediction dipped in sin.
“Smart girl,” he murmurs. “That’s my little sinner.”
The words curl around my spine, electric.
He tilts my face up, eyes searching mine like he’s seeing every scar and naming them beautiful.
“No more running. No more flinching. I’ll make sure of it.”
His thumb traces my jaw. “You’re mine now, yeah? My good girl with blood in her teeth. My storm in a chapel.”
I nod. There’s no air left in my lungs, but I nod.
His smirk sharpens. “You wanna learn to fight?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, a vow sealed in heat.
“I’ll teach you to ruin.”
Cain doesn’t let go of my hand as we head for the stairs.
Not once. Not even to lock the front door. His fingers stay wrapped around mine—warm, steady, calloused like truth. Like a promise carved into bone.
The bar fades behind us. The quiet hum of neon. The scent of whiskey and smoke. All of it dissolves beneath our steps.
It’s just us now. Him and me. No more ghosts. No more headlights. Each stair creaks under our weight, but his grip never falters.
I don’t think I realized how much I needed someone to just hold on. Not to fix it. Not to save me. Just stay.
When we reach the top, he opens the apartment door for me like I’m something precious. Like the kind of girl who should be protected.
And maybe—maybe I’m starting to believe I am.
He shuts it behind us, locking it twice. Then again with the chain. His hand never leaves my back.
“You good, little rabbit?” he asks, voice low, almost tender.
I nod. “Yeah. I am.”
“Damn right you are.”
He kisses my temple again. Like it’s his favorite habit. His act of worship.
“Go on,” he says, voice dipping. “Get in the shower. I’ll be right there.”
***
Cain doesn’t speak when he steps into the shower behind me. The curtain shifts. Heat blooms hotter. And then he’s there.
Naked.
Every inch of him shadowed in ink, carved muscle, and raw devotion.
I freeze—not out of fear, not anymore—but because there’s something sacred about the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m more than bones and bruises. Like I’m a psalm, written just for him.
“Relax,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with warmth. “Just wanna make sure you feel safe.”
I nod slowly. My body’s still humming with leftover panic, but the weight of his presence drowns it out.
His hand touches my back, gentle. Then he reaches for the shampoo. “Turn around, little rabbit.”
I do. My eyes catch on the ink stretched across his chest, dripping down his ribs like sin made permanent. A pair of praying hands wrapped in thorns. A saint’s face burned away. A blade crowned in fire. All blackwork and ruin, like holy things gone wrong.
“What’s this one?” I whisper, brushing my fingertips over his heart.
He looks down. “That? That’s my penance.”
He doesn’t explain it. Doesn’t have to.
His fingers work through my hair like he’s trying to wash away the world. Slow, deliberate strokes. He rinses. Conditions. His hands are so gentle I almost cry again—not from pain this time, but from the ache of being cared for.
He tilts my chin up, thumbs the water from my lashes. “You’re still here, Mags. Still breathing. That means they didn’t win.”
I nod, silent.
His lips brush my temple.
“You’re not a ghost. Not some shattered thing.”
His hand moves to rest on my lower back. “You’re mine. My little rabbit. My divine thing.”
His fingers move lower, trailing soap and heat down my shoulders, over my arms. Gentle, unhurried. Worshipful in the way he touches me, like he’s trying to rewrite every memory Warren ever scorched into my skin.
He doesn’t grope. Doesn’t leer.
Cain cleanses.