Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
In the Presence of False Prophets
The bar’s got that hum tonight—the kind that crawls down your spine and warns you something’s off before the first beer hits the tap.
It’s not the regulars. They’re tucked in their usual corners, laughing low, nursing their drinks with the kind of patience that comes from knowing Cain Devlin runs this place and doesn’t tolerate shit.
No, it’s the boys who walk in like they own the world.
Too clean. Too cocky. Young and mean behind the eyes.
I clock them the second they swagger through the door—four of them, all late twenties, dressed like they’re headed to a club but slumming it here for some reason.
One’s got a backwards snapback. Another’s in some shiny bomber jacket.
They’re all grins and elbows, talking loud enough to compete with the music.
Cain shifts behind the bar, slow and subtle, a storm cloud with tattoos.
Hank’s already watching them too, eyes narrowing as they stumble toward a high-top like it’s their throne.
“Great,” I mutter, grabbing a rag to wipe down the bar, even though it’s already spotless. “Just what we needed.”
Cain leans in, voice low enough to buzz against my spine. “They won’t last long.”
But I know better. Guys like this? They always last too long.
Cain leans in behind me as I wipe the bar down, his hand ghosting over my lower back like a benediction and a warning. His breath hits the curve of my neck just as his lips brush beneath my ear.
“I’ll be right back, little sinner,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and reverence. “Try not to start a holy war without me.”
Then he kisses the spot where my pulse stutters—slow and deliberate, like he’s branding me with his mouth. My spine straightens. My knees consider rebellion.
He’s gone before I can breathe, leaving behind the scent of smoke and sanctification, and a room full of wolves sharpening their teeth.
Cain disappears into the back to swap out a keg, and like vultures spotting a wounded thing, the boys move.
Loud, stumbling, dripping with too much cologne and not enough self-awareness, they saunter up to the bar—three deep, the fourth lagging behind with a phone in hand, filming something for his sad little feed, no doubt.
“Damn,” one of them says, eyes dragging up and down my body like I’m a menu. “Didn’t think a place like this would have something so sweet behind the bar.”
I don’t flinch. Just keep drying the same glass I’ve already wiped twice. My voice is level. “You want a drink, or are you just here to disappoint women all night?”
His buddies howl, elbowing him, but he just grins wider and leans closer—too close. I catch the scent of stale beer and overpriced cologne.
“You got a name, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” I say, reaching under the bar for a fresh towel just so I don’t grab the Louisville Slugger Cain keeps hidden instead. “It’s ‘not interested.’”
He licks his teeth like it’s charming. “Feisty. I like that.”
I keep my back straight, eyes neutral, pouring cheap beer like it’s communion wine. I don’t react. I don’t give him the show he wants.
That’s when Hank shifts on his stool.
“You heard her,” he says, voice low but lethal. “She’s not interested.”
The guy blinks slowly, then turns to look at Hank like he’s an inconvenience. “Who the hell are you? Her chaperone?”
“I’m the one who’ll mop the floor with your teeth if you keep running that mouth.” Hank’s not smiling. Not even close.
One of the other guys snickers and bumps his buddy’s shoulder, clearly drunk enough to be brave and stupid. “Easy, Grandpa. Didn’t realize the retirement home let you out past nine.”
That’s when the guy knocks over his beer, the amber liquid splashing across the bar and straight onto Hank’s flannel.
Hank doesn’t flinch. Just stares down at the spreading stain, jaw ticking once.
“Oops,” the kid says. “Better call your nurse. Might be time for a diaper change.”
“You don’t talk to him like that,” I say, louder now. My voice doesn’t shake. “He’s a better man than you’ll ever be in your entire sorry life.”
The kid barks a laugh, ugly and sharp. “Relax, sweetheart. No need to get your panties twisted. What is he, your grandpa?”
“No,” I snap. “He’s a good man. Something you clearly wouldn’t recognize if it knocked your teeth out.”
His grin falters.
I keep going.
“Guys like you? You come in loud, spill your beer, run your mouths like it makes you taller. But all I see is a boy who thinks disrespect is a personality.”
He steps in close, all beer breath and empty threat. “You got a lot to say for someone working behind a bar.”
“You got a lot to say for someone still wearing his daddy’s cologne,” I bite back, chest heaving.
His buddies whoop and holler like this is just some show. Like I’m some damn joke to laugh at.
He leans in, eyes cold now. “Careful, bitch. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
That’s when the ground inside me cracks.
It’s Warren’s voice. It’s every raised hand. Every slammed door. Every night I swallowed my rage and made myself smaller just to survive.
My feet won’t move.
My fists won’t clench.
My voice—that fierce thing Cain coaxed out of me earlier this week—goes silent.
It’s Warren all over again.
The way he’d corner me at the end of a shift, voice syrup-slick and sharp as glass.
The way he’d lean in too close, threaten with a smile, twist my arm under the guise of a joke.
The way no one stopped him. Not even me.
It’s every ex who slammed a door just to make me flinch.
Every man who raised a voice, then a hand, then blamed me for standing too close.
I’m not in Cain’s bar anymore. I’m back there.
Back in that cold office.
Back in that apartment hallway.
Back where no one came to help.
“Aw,” the guy says, like he can smell the fear leaking through my skin. “Cat got your tongue, princess?”
His breath reeks of beer and power he didn’t earn.
“Not so feisty now, huh?” he chuckles. “Bet you bark loud, but beg real sweet.”
My fingers tremble around the towel in my hands. My knees knock, invisible to everyone but me. My lips part, but no words come. I can’t even breathe.
The world tilts. And that’s when everything goes still.
Because the air behind the kid shifts. Heavy. Electric. Judged.
“You deaf?” a new voice growls, low and lethal behind the kid’s ear. “She said she’s not interested.”
The guy jolts like something cold just crawled down his spine. He turns—and stops.
Cain doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
Not when his presence alone feels like a Judgment Day sermon made flesh.
He’s all shadows and firelight, jaw clenched, hands loose at his sides like he’s one blink away from violence. His eyes lock on the guy, slow and seething.
“I’d take your drink,” Cain says, voice calm as confession, “and your pride—what little’s left—and get the hell out of my bar before I teach you what real fear tastes like.”
No one laughs this time.
The guy stumbles back. His buddies go quiet, like wolves called back to heel. One mutters something about “not worth it.” Another drops a bill on the counter with shaking fingers.
They scramble.
Doors swing.
Silence.
Cain doesn’t look at me yet.
Just stands there, breathing through his nose, hands still twitching with the restraint it took not to break someone’s jaw.
I hate this.
The silence. The aftermath. The way my hands still shake, even though they’re gone.
I stare at the bar, at the wet rings drinks left behind, like stains I’ll never quite scrub out. Like bruises on wood. Like memories.
I wanted to say more. I wanted to be louder. Stronger. I wanted to be the girl who threw a punch and didn’t flinch.
Instead, I froze.
Again.
Didn’t move when Hank was insulted.
Didn’t breathe when that asshole got in my face.
Didn’t do a damn thing except wait for someone else to fix it.
Cain.
He always fixes it.
But what if one day he doesn’t?
What if I’m always this girl—this scared, shattered version of myself who only pretends she’s stitched back together?
I press my palms to the counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles ache.
I trained. I fought. I swung.
But when it mattered, I choked.
Again.
The shame rolls in hot and thick, coating my ribs like smoke.
I couldn’t defend Hank. Couldn’t defend me.
What good is all this if I still shut down the second a man raises his voice?
I don’t even look at Cain.
Can’t bear to see the disappointment I know will be there.
Hank wipes his hands on a rag, then tosses it aside and leans on the bar like the whole thing didn’t just happen.
“You did good, kid,” he says. Simple. Steady. Like he means it.
Like my voice hadn’t cracked. Like I hadn’t frozen in place.
I shake my head, staring at the floor.
“No, I didn’t.” My voice is small. Ash and grit. “I—I couldn’t even move.”
He shrugs, soft. “But you wanted to. That counts too. More than you think.”
I blink fast, trying to hold the burn behind my eyes like it’s sacred. I don’t want to cry in this bar. Not over them.
Cain doesn’t say anything.
He’s still by the door, arms crossed, shoulders tight. Jaw ticking like he’s grinding judgment between his teeth.
Or maybe it’s not judgment. Maybe it’s just me imagining it. That’s worse, somehow.
I don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if he’s angry—if he agrees with everything I hate about myself—
Then maybe I really am just some broken thing he patched together out of boredom. And God, I don’t think I can survive knowing that.
The bar feels colder after the boys leave. Not physically—just in that way a place does after your body’s still stuck in fight-or-flight and the only thing left to do is sweep up glass and pretend you’re fine.
***
I wipe down the counter with too much force. The rag squeaks against the wood, a sound that gnaws at my spine.
Cain hasn’t said a word.
Not since that.
Not since I froze.
He moves around the bar like a ghost. Gathering bottles. Flipping chairs onto tables. That muscle in his jaw hasn’t stopped ticking.
He’s mad. He has to be.
Mad that I couldn’t stop shaking. Mad that I couldn’t back up Hank with anything stronger than a stammer and a flash of fear. Mad that I talked big and then caved when it counted.
The silence swells like a bruise. Every step I take feels like I’m walking across broken glass, barefoot and bleeding, trying not to wince. Trying to keep my breath steady. Trying to ignore the way my brain replays it all in a loop: “Careful, bitch. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
I swallow hard. My throat burns. My hands won’t stop trembling. Not even Cain’s presence feels like protection tonight. Because he hasn’t looked at me the same.
And maybe… maybe I’ve disappointed him. Maybe I’m not the storm he thought I was. Just a flicker. Just a girl who couldn’t hold her ground when it counted.
He finishes locking up. Doesn’t say anything.
And I don’t ask. Because I’m afraid I already know the answer.