Chapter 13 Lessons in Holy Wrath
Chapter thirteen
Lessons in Holy Wrath
Iwake to empty sheets and the scent of something sinful.
Not sex. Not smoke.
Bacon.
I blink against the morning light, warmth still clinging to my skin like his touch never really left. The bed feels too big without him, and I’m not ready to say that out loud. Not even in my head.
So I get up, pad across the floor, still bare-legged and wearing his shirt.
The hem brushes my thighs, the collar wide and stretched from his broad shoulders.
It smells like him—dark and clean, smoke, and something scorched at the edges, like the inside of a confession booth that got struck by lightning.
When I turn the corner into the kitchen, he’s there.
Back to me, shirtless and barefoot, tattoos dancing over his shoulders as he flips something in a cast-iron skillet.
Cain turns his head slowly, eyes dragging down my legs like he’s willing them to open just from the heat of his gaze alone. His lips quirk. Dangerous. Reverent.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel and gospel. “God himself couldn’t’ve painted anything holier.”
My pulse stutters. My knees think about giving out.
He sets the spatula down without looking, leans his hip against the counter, and stares like I’m the altar and he’s about to kneel.
“You hungry, little sinner? Or just hoping I’ll ruin that shirt you stole?”
He moves toward me like the room belongs to him—like I do.
Slow and deliberate, every step a prayer I’m not holy enough to hear. His eyes never leave mine, not even when he stops close enough for the hem of his sweatpants to brush my bare thigh.
His fingers find the edge of the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—and tug it just enough to expose the skin beneath. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow, worshipful. Not rushed, not greedy. Like he has all the time in the world to ruin me sweetly.
Cain kisses me like he’s already said grace. Like I’m the morning sacrament he intends to devour, but not yet—not quite. Just a taste. Just enough to remind me I’m his.
When he pulls back, his breath is a benediction on my lips.
“Sit,” he rasps. “Eat. Or I’ll forget I made breakfast and sin twice before noon.”
I bring the mug to my lips, but my eyes never leave him.
Cain Devlin.
He’s not just ink and menace and gravel-thick voice. He’s ruin wrapped in reverence. The kind of man you’d find carved into cathedral corners—holy from far away, dangerous up close.
He moves through the kitchen like the air obeys him. Barefoot and godless, flipping bacon like it’s a sacrament.
And I’m standing here in his shirt, thighs bare, lungs full of smoke and soap and him.
I should be afraid of what he makes me feel. I was afraid. But now?
Now, I’m just burning. From the inside out.
He turns, catches me staring, and that smirk curves slow and knowing.
"Careful," I say, voice lower than I mean it to be. "If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start believing you see something holy in me."
His eyes drag down my body like worship, then rise to meet mine.
"I do," he says simply. "But it’s the kind of holy that gets you excommunicated."
He slides the plate in front of me, then takes the seat across the counter like this is all normal. Like I’m not sitting here in his shirt, legs bare, heart wrecked and rebuilt in the shape of his name.
I fork into the bacon, chewing slowly while he watches me like I’m the sunrise and he’s been damned to darkness too long.
“So,” he says, voice lazy but laced with something rougher underneath. “Still want that lesson?”
My eyes flick up. “The fighting one?”
“Mm.” His smirk curves slowly. “Unless you’re hoping for a different kind of hands-on training.”
I nearly choke on my toast.
Cain chuckles and leans in, elbow on the counter, chin resting in his hand. “You don’t have to, Mags. Not for me. Not to prove anything. But if you do want to learn to hit back, I’ll teach you. All of it. Every dirty trick I know.”
I stare down at the eggs for a beat too long, the weight of it all pressing into my ribs. The fear. The past. The need.
“I want this,” I say finally. “But not just to fight. I want to feel strong. I want to walk down a street and not wonder who’s behind me. I want my body to feel like mine again.”
Cain’s expression shifts. Like something in him recognizes the prayer in my voice.
“Then we’ll start today,” he says. “You, me, and every demon that ever thought they could touch you. We’ll teach them who they were messing with.”
We finish breakfast in a quiet rhythm that feels like something sacred—his fork tapping lightly against the plate, my heart still rattling somewhere in my ribs. The kind of silence that settles after a storm, when everything’s still bruised but blooming.
I put the dishes in the sink as Cain cleans up the stove.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall. “Meet me downstairs. Bring fire.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already smiling.
Ten minutes later, I’m lacing up my sneakers in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. My leggings are plain black, my sports bra even simpler—but the way Cain’s eyes flick over me when I come down the stairs makes me feel like I’ve been dipped in sin and stitched back together with desire.
He’s leaning against the bar when I arrive, arms crossed, muscles flexed beneath a black t-shirt and worn grey sweatpants slung criminally low. His hair is still messy from sleep. His jaw, freshly shaven but somehow still sharp enough to kill.
“Is this the part where I stretch and you pretend not to watch?” I ask, stepping onto the padded mats he laid out between the pool tables and the jukebox.
He tilts his head, grin slow and reverent. “No, little rabbit. This is the part where I pray you never turn those hips on me mid-fight, or I’ll drop my guard and let you knock me flat.”
I stretch slow and deliberate, arms up over my head, back arching like I’m offering myself to the altar of sin and sweat. Cain watches from the bar, jaw clenched, expression unreadable—until I twist at the waist and shoot him a wicked grin.
“You’re staring, my hellhound.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m memorizing. For strategic purposes.”
“Oh, sure. Strictly professional.”
“You have no idea how unprofessional I’m about to get.”
He pushes off the bar and stalks toward me with intention carved into every step. His hands skim my hips like he’s measuring angles. Like he’s seconds away from dragging me down to my knees right here on the mats.
“Bend over for me, little sinner,” he murmurs. “Just a stretch. Promise.”
I open my mouth—whether to sass him or obey, I’ll never know—because the door creaks open, and a familiar voice breaks the spell.
“Well,” Hank drawls from the doorway. “Don’t let me interrupt your prayer session.”
Cain groans and steps back, but not before pressing one last, sinful kiss to the small of my back. I shoot Hank a sheepish smile, cheeks burning.
“Morning, Hank.”
Cain clears his throat like it might chase away the last remnants of whatever wicked thing he was about to do to me.
Hank ambles in, eyebrows raised, smirk firmly in place as he settles onto a barstool near the edge of the mats.
“So,” he says, voice thick with amusement, “we training or grinding this morning?”
Cain glares. “You want to help or get excommunicated?”
“Oh, I’m helping,” Hank says, already unwrapping the muffin he brought with him like this is just another Tuesday. “Just don’t let her go easy on you. She’s got righteous rage in those knuckles.”
Cain turns back to me, eyes narrowed and focused now. The flirt is gone—for now—and in its place is something darker. Something sacred.
“Hands up, feet grounded. This isn’t about brute force, Mags. It’s about control. Power comes from the hips, not just the fists. Like sin—it has to start deep.”
I mimic his stance, adjusting my balance.
We move slowly at first. Jab. Block. Step back. Again. His hands guide mine, adjusting my posture and brushing over my ribs with steady precision. Each correction feels like a brand. Like scripture rewritten through muscle memory.
“Now throw it like you mean it,” he says. “You’re not fragile anymore.”
“I was never fragile,” I mutter, and throw a punch that actually makes him take half a step back.
Hank whistles low. “There we go, Saint Magdalena.”
Cain shakes out his jaw. “Alright then. Again.”
Ten minutes pass like a holy war. Cain pushes me, coaxes fire out of my bones. Every time I hesitate, he steps in closer, breath hot, voice hotter.
“You’re allowed to hit back, Mags.”
I swing harder.
Hank leans forward, mouth full of muffin. “If you want to drop him, aim lower. Right hook to the ribs, follow with a knee. The man’s got a weak left side.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Cain snaps.
“Just evening the playing field. You’ve got six inches and twenty pounds on her. And, you know, the whole ‘spawn of vengeance’ vibe.”
I glance at Cain. “Is that true? Weak left side?”
Cain smirks. “You can try, little sinner. But if you miss, I’m pinning you to the floor.”
I lunge.
I don’t think—I just go. A burst of motion, muscle, memory. My fist slams into his ribs, and for a heartbeat, he actually stumbles. Just a half-step, just enough. Then I follow through.
But I’m not fast enough.
Cain sweeps me off my feet—literally. In one fluid, punishing move, I’m on my back, the padded mat biting into my spine as his weight settles over me like a storm cloud. My wrists are pinned above my head, locked in his grip, like I belong there.
And maybe I do.
His breath brushes my ear. “Try that again, little sinner,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and threat. “And I’ll crown you queen of the damned right here on this floor.”
His hips shift—just a little—and I feel it. The power, the promise. The sin waiting to be rewritten into salvation.
“God,” I whisper.
“Not today,” he says, grinning. “Today you learn to fight.”
Then he kisses me. Soft at first. Worshipful. Then all over—quick, playful pecks down my jaw, across my cheek, over the tip of my nose.
I laugh, breathless.
Hank grumbles from the barstool, “You done making out, or should I fetch you two a church and a witness?”
Cain doesn’t even look up. “She pinned me. That’s marriage in some countries.”
“Try again,” Hank deadpans, “and I’ll teach her how to actually drop you.”
Cain rises off me slowly, like smoke lifting off ash. He offers his hand, and I take it—just long enough to fake left and sweep his legs.
He barely catches himself.
"That one’s dirty," he mutters, eyes gleaming.
"That one’s effective," I shoot back.
From the bar, Hank hollers, “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”
I charge again. Jab. Block. Duck. My muscles burn, but in that good kind of pain—the kind that makes you feel alive and dangerous. Cain blocks every move like he’s not even trying, with that lazy grin on his face like I’m a kitten clawing at a lion.
“Almost had me, little rabbit,” he purrs, circling.
“Stop calling me that,” I pant, tightening my stance.
He cocks his head. “What, you’d prefer, little saint? Fallen girl? Magdalena?”
I lunge again, aiming lower this time—like Hank taught me. Right hook to the ribs, duck, pivot—
Hank yells, “Knee!”
I follow through.
Cain grunts, his body folding just enough for me to wrap my arm around his neck and throw my weight. It’s messy. Not elegant. Not pretty. But it works.
We hit the mat together, but I end up on top.
Cain blinks up at me, hair falling into his eyes. He’s flat on his back. Pinned. One of my thighs on either side of his hips, my palm braced over his sternum.
I don’t even gloat.
I just say, breathless, “Again?”
He groans, lips curling into something wicked. “Sweet divine fuck, you are dangerous.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I quip, pushing off him.
From the sideline, Hank whistles. “That’s my girl! Next time, aim a little higher and really knock the sin outta him.”
Cain sits up slowly, rubbing his ribs with a grin that says he’s not even mad. “If she goes any harder, I’m gonna need a safe word.”
I offer my hand this time. “Pick one.”
“Sanctify.”