12. Erica
With every minute spent in his home, my captor turns into a bigger enigma.
After getting out of bed, Cain allows me some privacy in the en-suite bathroom connected to the master bedroom.
I insist he waits outside, and he obliges, grumbling something about being weak from the drugs and calling him if I need help.
The bathroom is stunning, too.
Brown stone tiles, a freestanding copper bathtub, a walk-in shower, and a dark wooden counter with two sinks.
Right in the middle between them, as if to make sure I see it, stands a black gift box with a red ribbon around it and a clear front.
My eyes widen as I pick it up, fingers gliding over the embossed golden letters.
Sinner.
It’s my favorite perfume with the matching body wash, deodorant, and lotion.
This must be a coincidence, but I decide to use it all the same.
A large cabinet occupies a whole wall, stacked with fluffy, dark towels and a metric shit ton of mixed cosmetic products sorted into little wicker baskets.
Most are still packaged.
I recognize some luxury brands from online window shopping, and my head spins when I try to estimate how much all of it is worth.
Something undefinable shoots through my chest.
Does he have a wife or a girlfriend?
Why else would he have this stuff?
I shake my head.
That’s none of my business.
I pick out shampoo and conditioner with scents to complement the perfume and some skin care, too.
Standing under the rain shower relaxes my tense muscles and eases the aches.
When I’m done, my legs aren’t wobbly like a newborn deer’s anymore.
I can walk normally, except for some dizziness and dull pains.
Dressed in my favorite sweatpants and crop top plus fuzzy socks—Cain washed and dried my sparse wardrobe while I was unconscious—he walks me downstairs, casually explaining the layout of the house as if it’s the most normal home in the world.
In the meantime, I have to stop my jaw from dragging across the floor.
Mister Beat-up-truck-and-cheap-whisky lives in an actual mansion .
A real life, Pinterest board worthy luxury ranch, including multiple guest rooms with their own en-suites, a three-car garage, a home gym, and a landscaped backyard with a pool.
Just how many different versions of him exist in that one criminally attractive, muscled body of his?
Skilled surgeon, dangerous criminal, mischievous wannabe cowboy…
and now, what?
Millionaire?
Cain brings me to a large living space.
French doors lead to a roofed terrace with outdoor sofas and a fire pit.
The large pool is further out, glittering invitingly in the setting sun.
A wagon wheel repurposed as an electric chandelier hangs from the high ceiling above a sitting area with a dark green velvet sofa and matching armchairs, centered around a huge brick fireplace.
The whole house is decorated in shades of deep green, slate, and earthy tones, mixed with wood.
Landscape paintings hang on the walls, joined by various animal skulls.
“You hunt?” I ask, padding after Cain.
“Naw, those were my dad’s. But these are mine.” He gestures to bookshelves on the opposite wall of the fireplace and an oak dining table with six chairs.
“You bought them?”
He glances at me over his shoulder.
“I made them. It’s a hobby. I have a small workshop in an old outbuilding. The manual labor keeps me in shape better than any workout, which comes in handy when I gotta wrangle rowdy victims.” He winks and a strange buzz starts in my chest.
I clear my throat to get rid of it.
The carpentry explains his muscles and calloused hands.
No one gets those from performing surgery.
“Aren’t surgeons usually very careful with their hands?” I ask.
“I’m not practicing anymore,” he says with a decisiveness that makes it obvious the topic is finished.
Is his work a sore spot for him?
Cain stops in an open kitchen and pulls out a bar stool by the island in the middle.
I sit with my heart beating fast, pressing my hands to the cold countertop.
The kitchen is in keeping with the rest of the house.
Dark wooden cabinets and black marble, the perfect unison of rustic charm with a touch of modern sleekness.
Cain fills a tall glass with ice from the family-sized fridge, giving me a chance to ogle him instead of walking behind him like his pet.
He wears grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt with an open button down flannel over it, muscles flexing in his forearms, straining against rolled-up sleeves.
My eyes are magnetically drawn to the sizeable bulge in his crotch and I blush.
Does he have to be so effortlessly attractive?
Being angry would be much easier if my captor was an ugly, unwashed, anti-social cave troll.
“Is soda alright?” he asks, opening the fridge and sticking his head inside.
“Uh. Yes, sure.”
He pours a glass from a fresh bottle and puts it in front of me with a devilish grin.
“I’m glad you said yes. You can use a bit of sugar after all the excitement of the past days and it would make me feel like your dad if I had to force you.”
I snort.
“I’m not going to call you daddy if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
He laughs.
“Not my thing, don’t worry. And I’m not that much older than you. Seven years, actually.”
That means Cain is 37.
And of course, the asshole knows my age from my driver’s license.
I shrug, trying to seem like I don’t care and grab the glass.
The outside is damp from condensation, and I drink in big gulps, suddenly aware of how thirsty I still am.
The soda is deliciously sweet and fizzy.
Cain hums.
“But sir, master or Dr. Morrow has a ring to it. You can call me any of those, darlin’.”
I choke on my drink.
Apparently choking is my thing around Cain, given that it already happened twice.
He slaps my back while I cough—and if looks could kill, he’d be dead on the spot.
“I’d rather die,” I groan.
He raises a brow.
“That can be arranged, but I thought we had an understanding. Don’t tell me I’m about to waste an amazing steak on you because you’re planning to get yourself killed by being a brat.”
The word steak gets my attention.
He notices and takes a bundle wrapped in brown paper from the fridge.
Carefully, he puts it on the kitchen island to unwrap it.
My mouth waters at the sight of two thick pieces of dark red, delicately marbled beef.
This is the kind of expensive cut I’ve seen on TV or in magazines.
“A5 Wagyu sirloin. My favorite,” Cain says.
“And by the ravenous look in your eyes, it’s about to become your favorite, too.”
I bristle.
“Is it a crime for a grown woman to enjoy a nice steak?”
He shrugs and takes a pan from the cabinets, putting it on the unlit gas stove.
With the most self-satisfied grin he turns to me again.
“No, but it’s the same way you look at me , darlin’.”
My face is on fire.
I huff as I reach into the glass and take out an ice cube, defiantly putting it in my mouth.
That way, I don’t have to answer.
A good thing, too, so I don’t say something stupid.
I never look at him like that.
Probably not.
Hopefully not?
While I sulk in silence, sucking on ice cubes, Cain pre-heats the oven and whisks around the kitchen like a pro.
“Do you have any food allergies or intolerances?” he asks, taking a tray of raw fries from the fridge.
They’ve clearly been cut by hand, slathered in oil and herbs.
“Not that I know of.”
“Great!” He nods, sliding the tray into the oven.
For a man who takes such great pleasure in tormenting me, he’s sure considerate.
A considerate kidnapper.
Who would’ve thought?
If I ignore all the red flags, Cain is pure husband material.
I shake my head, lightly slapping my cheeks.
Why am I even considering something so ridiculous?
But Nate would never ask me about allergies.
He wouldn’t cook for me in the first place, though.
I listen to Cain’s gravelly, melodious humming while he washes and cuts ingredients for a salad, tossing them into a big bowl.
Lettuce, peppers, red onions, and carrot slices topped with parmesan shavings.
In a jar, he prepares a lemon vinaigrette for later.
I add chef to my mental list of different men he is.
When I woke up in his basement of medical horrors—and ugh, fine, pleasures as well—the last thing I expected was him cooking for me.
But with the way my life has been turned on its head, this isn’t the craziest thing to happen.
“Where are we?” I ask, expecting him to make some evasive joke as he usually does.
“Hill Country. Roughly an hour and a half from San Antonio.”
My brows arch.
He took me far from North Texas.
Since Cain seems to be in a talkative mood, I decide to use the opportunity to get more information out of him.
The more I know, the better my chances of escape.
After seeing the cosmetics in the bathroom, finding out if he has an accomplice is high on the list of valuable topics, but I can’t just ask.
I have to be clever about it.
“Your house is beautiful, but so large for one person,” I remark.
“Doesn’t it get a little lonely?”
He washes a bundle of asparagus and a zucchini while he answers.
“I enjoy the quiet. When I was a boy, my parents tore down the old ranch house they inherited from my dad’s folks and built this one. I had it renovated and redecorated a few years ago.”
I exhale with quiet relief.
No wife or live-in girlfriend.
At least I only have to worry about him, not a whole family of killers trying to murder me.
That’s what I care about, absolutely not that he’s single.
“What happened to your parents?” I ask before I can stop myself.
A hitch runs through his hand as he picks up the knife to slice the vegetables.
“A drunk driver.” He pauses, the thunk of the blade on the cutting board breaking the tense silence.
“The drunk driver was my mother. She was pretty good at knowing her limits, but she had too much that day and wrapped the car around a tree like a fuckin’ ribbon.”
My insides wring tight.
If there’s one thing I know about, it’s the impact of an addict as a parent.
The drug habits of mine derailed my life from the day I was born.
I chew on my cheek.
“I’m sorry, Cain,” I mumble.
It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but nothing ever does when the topic is so complex and heavy.
“Don’t worry. I’m a big guy. I can take care of myself,” he says, a somber note ringing in his voice, and a twinge of empathy has me wondering if he’s as lonely as he sounds.
The conversation fizzles, and Cain continues cooking.
He cleans the mess in the kitchen while we wait for the veggies to grill and the steak to finish sizzling in the pan.
The knife and cutting board are drying on a dish towel by the sink.
It seems he likes things to be neat and tidy.
Soon, he puts cutlery wrapped in a linen napkin and a huge plate of steaming food in front of me.
My stomach growls when I smell the perfectly seared steak, grilled asparagus and zucchini with garlic, thick, herby fries, and zesty salad.
After he refills my drink, Cain gets himself some dinner and a glass of soda, too.
I glance at his plate.
He’s given himself the smaller steak.
“Wow. This looks amazing,” I say, grabbing my fork first, then my knife.
A sharp, long, serrated steak knife.
My eyes narrow.
Cain tuts.
“Don’t even think about it, little dove.”
“Think about what?” I flutter my lashes at him.
“Stabbing me.”
“I would never .”
He sighs.
“I’m faster and stronger than you. You’ll get yourself hurt and then I’ll have to stitch you up. So save us both the hassle and forget about it. Let’s just enjoy the food.”