Chapter 23 The Gospel of Her Wrath
Chapter twenty-three
The Gospel of Her Wrath
Ipace the length of the cell like it’s a goddamn warpath.
One, two, three steps. Turn. One, two, three steps back. Again. Again. Over and over until the motion becomes a tether to something that won’t let me fly apart. I count my breaths. I forget them. I choke on them. My hands won’t stop shaking.
This is a mistake. A nightmare. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong.
I dig my nails into my palms so hard I think I break skin. Good. Let it bleed. At least it reminds me I’m still here, still real. Not some shadow of a girl in a jumpsuit cage, looking like guilt incarnate.
My laugh rips out without warning, wild and bitter. It echoes too loudly off the concrete walls. God, it sounds unhinged. Like I’ve cracked all the way through.
“Happy fucking Thanksgiving,” I mutter to no one, to everyone, to the ghost of Warren's hands on my body.
I see him everywhere. In the smear of blood still dried under my fingernails. In the way the bruises on my ribs pulse with every breath. In the silence of this cell, where the only thing louder than the buzzing fluorescent lights is the sound of my own goddamn heart trying not to break.
They arrested me.
They took me.
Not him. Not the stalker. Not the one who waited in the shadows like rot.
I press my back to the wall and slide down until I’m crouched like some kind of hunted thing.
My thighs ache from the pacing, my chest from the weight of it all.
I want to scream. I want to claw through these bars.
I want to go back and bash his face in again and again and again until they don't dare ask me what happened. Until there’s no need for charges, no need for courtrooms, no need for apologies I’ll never get.
I press my face into my knees and try not to cry. Try not to fall apart. Try not to go full feral rabbit in a fucking trap.
Because this is how they break us.
They make us scream and then punish us for the sound.
They didn’t even ask me what happened.
Not one goddamn question.
Not “Are you hurt?”
Not “Did he touch you?”
Not “Are you safe?”
Just hands on my wrists. Cold metal. The words: You’re under arrest.
Like I was the danger. Like I was the monster in the alleyway.
I laugh again, but it dies in my throat. Comes out choked, broken. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to sit still. It hurts to exist in a world where men like Warren get to spin their web of lies and watch me fall into it—again.
He said I attacked him.
And they believed him.
They looked at my bruises. My blood. My busted lip and the fear still written on my face like a goddamn confession—and they still chose him.
What the fuck kind of world is this?
What version of reality do you have to live in where a man shows up uninvited, lays his hands on a woman, and she is the one behind bars by dinner?
I press my head back against the cinderblock wall. It’s cold. It doesn’t help.
How many other women have sat in a cell just like this?
With skin still stinging, with pride shattered, with fear clinging like cigarette smoke in their lungs.
How many of them were told to be quiet? Told to smile.
Told to let it go. Told they were overreacting.
Crazy. Hysterical. Needing help. Unwell. Emotional.
God. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss my fucking ass.
I curl my fingers into my hair, tug at the roots. Not hard enough. Not nearly enough. I want to scream until the rafters crack. Until the walls bleed. Until someone listens.
But no one’s listening. Not in here.
They threw me in this cell like garbage tossed to the curb. Like my story didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
But I do. I know I do.
Cain thinks I do. Hank thinks I do. I feel it in the quiet way Cain touches my cheek when I’ve had a hard night, in the way Hank pulls me in for hugs like he’s trying to hold the broken pieces of me together.
I matter.
Even if they don’t see it. Even if this system never has. I lean forward and press my forehead to my knees again. I'm not the girl I was before. I'm not weak. I'm not helpless. I'm not his. He tried to take everything from me. But I’m still here.
I’m still fucking here.
I hear footsteps and voices murmuring down the corridor. Then keys jingling. A metallic scrape. The unmistakable clunk of a lock turning.
I don’t lift my head. Not until the cell door creaks open and a shadow falls across my boots.
"You're free to go."
I blink up at the officer. My vision stings—dry from crying, dry from fury. My brain doesn’t register his words right away.
“What?”
“You’re being released.”
I stare. No apology. No explanation. Just those three words, like they mean nothing. Like the hours I spent in this concrete coffin didn’t happen. Like the cuffs didn’t bite into my wrists. Like I wasn’t just treated like a criminal.
The officer steps aside. And then I see him.
Cain.
Leaning in the doorway. All black. Shadow and smoke and safety. His arms crossed, jaw set like stone, eyes locked on me with that wild storm behind them. But his voice? Velvet.
“Come here, little saint.”
My legs give out for half a second when I move, as if I've forgotten how to use them. But then I’m running. I slam into his chest, arms around his middle, face buried in his coat. I breathe him in—leather, clove, and Cain. And it hits me all at once.
I’m not alone. I was never alone.
He holds me like I might disappear if he lets go. Big, tattooed hands cupping the back of my head, holding my broken pieces together. His lips find my temple, then my cheek, then right over the corner of my eye where the tears are barely clinging.
“Shhh, little rabbit,” he whispers against my skin. “I got you.”
And I believe him.
Even if I don’t understand. Even if my heart is still jackhammering. Even if I’m shaking like a leaf in the November wind—I believe him.
He’s here. I’m free.
He keeps one arm wrapped around me as he walks me out of the station. Like I might bolt. Like he knows I’m barely stitched together right now.
The cold night air hits my face like a slap, sharp and sudden. It smells like rain on concrete and old oil, and it makes the whole thing feel real again. I was arrested. In front of everyone. Dragged away like I was the danger.
He leads me to the car, opens the door like I’m fragile, like I’m glass. I sink into the passenger seat, gripping the edge with white-knuckled fists.
He gets in. Starts the engine. Says nothing. I can’t take it.
“How did you get me out?”
He drives. One hand on the wheel. One arm resting casually across the top of the seat behind me like he’s out for a fucking Sunday cruise.
“Cain?” I press. “What’s going on?”
He glances over, lips twitching into that faint, sinful smile. “Shhh, don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” I laugh, bitter and broken. “Cain, I was in a cell. They didn’t even ask what happened. They just believed him. How the fuck—”
“All charges were dropped,” he says simply.
I freeze. “What?”
“They dropped everything.”
I turn to face him fully, heart slamming into my ribs. “But how? Why would they do that? Did Warren—did he—?”
He shakes his head slowly. Silent again. My skin prickles.
“Cain.” My voice is thin now. Threadbare. “Tell me.”
He finally looks at me—really looks. And there’s something behind his eyes that makes my breath catch. Not rage. Not relief. Purpose.
“You’ll see, my little sinner,” he says, and there’s so much promise in those words it sends a shiver down my spine.
He presses his lips to the back of my hand, soft and reverent, like he’s praying to something sacred. And then he drives. To where, I don’t know. But everything in me knows—
I’m not going back to the girl I was before that cell. Cain has plans. And I think I’m about to see what vengeance dressed in devotion really looks like.
He takes the turn off the main road like he’s done it a thousand times.
Like this was always the plan.
The headlights cut through fog as we drive deeper into nowhere—woods pressing in on either side, thick and dark and humming with night sounds. My heart’s in my throat. My pulse is still wrecked from the station. From everything.
We pull up to an old building—something long abandoned. Rusted corrugated siding. A half-lit sign with letters missing. It could’ve been a factory. A slaughterhouse. A church turned inside out. Either way, it looks like a place the law forgot.
Cain parks. Lets the engine tick and cool.
I glance at him, nerves fraying in my chest. “Cain?”
He turns to me, his face lit by the dash lights. Calm. Collected. A dangerous kind of holy.
He takes my hand, brings it to his lips again, his mouth warm on my knuckles. “Don’t worry, Mags,” he murmurs, low and steady. “I got you.”
It’s the same thing he always says. But this time, it feels like a warning.
He gets out first, rounds the car, opens my door like a gentleman—like we’re stepping into a restaurant and not a fucking horror movie backdrop.
The second I stand, the wind slices through me, and the weight of whatever this is sinks into my bones.
Cain doesn’t hesitate. He holds my hand, guiding me toward the door.
Every step feels heavier. Every cell in my body is awake.
The door creaks open under his hand, and the air inside smells like metal and old secrets.
“Merry fucking Thanksgiving,” he says, almost to himself.
And then I hear it. A groan. Faint. Human. I freeze. My breath catches.
Cain squeezes my hand. “Come on, little saint. We’re almost there.”
And I follow. Because even if I’m afraid… I trust the devil that loves me more than the gods that left me behind.
Hank’s here. He’s smiling, casual as ever, like this is just another Thursday. “Hey, Rabbit,” he says, soft and warm. “Got you a little Thanksgiving present.”
I blink at him, then glance at Cain. His arm’s still around my back, steady and solid like scaffolding holding me upright.
“What’s he talking about?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
Cain doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head.