Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cain
Jake Bauer is dumber than I gave him credit for.
I watch from the tree line as he stumbles around the back of the Sterling house, trying the same door handle for the third time as if it might have magically unlocked itself.
He's drunk enough that his coordination is suffering, but not so drunk he'll forget this tomorrow.
This is calculated intoxication—liquid courage for what he's planning.
He pulls out his keys, fumbling through them.
The third one is a master—all deputies have them for emergencies, and the lock turns.
He's inside.
I move closer, weighing my options.
I could stop him now, but that would require revealing myself.
Or I could document this, let him hang himself with his own rope.
My phone records everything in night vision clarity as he moves through the dark house like he owns it.
The way he navigates tells me this isn't his first time inside without permission.
He knows which stairs creak, automatically ducking under the low beam by the kitchen entrance.
He's done this before, probably during his protection details, walking through the house while Sterling slept, imagining it could be his.
Then I see her.
Celeste's bedroom window opens, and she drops into the snow.
Even from here, I can see her wince as she lands, her ankle turning wrong.
But she doesn't cry out—smart girl.
She starts running toward the woods, toward my property, leaving prints in the snow like breadcrumbs.
The drop is at least twelve feet.
She didn't hesitate, which means whatever Jake was doing or saying through that bedroom door was worse than risking a broken ankle.
My hands clench into fists as I imagine what could have driven her to that desperation.
Jake must hear something because his silhouette appears in her bedroom window. "Celeste?" His voice carries in the still night. "Where are you, baby? Just want to talk."
Baby.
The familiarity, the assumed intimacy, makes my blood burn cold.
He's constructed entire relationships in his head, built on nothing.
She's already disappearing into the trees, limping but moving fast.
She knows these woods from childhood, but not like I do.
And not drunk like Jake's about to try to navigate them.
I follow parallel to her path, keeping her in sight while monitoring Jake's pursuit.
He's crashed back down the stairs, out the back door, following her tracks with the determination of a man who's crossed a line and can't go back.
"Celeste! Don't make this worse!" He's shouting now, all pretense of welfare checks abandoned. "You can't tell anyone about this. I have keys! I'm allowed to check on you!"
The desperation in his voice is telling.
He knows what he's done is wrong, but he's trying to convince himself otherwise.
The keys are his permission; his badge, his authority.
In his mind, these things override her locked door, her clear rejection, her flight into the woods.
She's heading for my cabin.
She has the key I gave her, and she's choosing to use it.
Choosing me over every other option.
The satisfaction of that burns through my chest like whiskey.
But she's hurt.
I can see it in her gait, the way she's favoring her left ankle.
Blood drops dot the snow—she must have cut herself on the window frame or the fall.
Jake will follow that trail straight to her, unless I give him something else to follow.
I cut through the woods on a path that will intersect with Jake's.
He's about a hundred yards behind her now, breathing hard, his duty belt jingling with each step. I let him see me, just a shadow between trees.
"Who's there?" He spins toward me, hand going to his gun. "This is Deputy Bauer!"
I move again, leading him east, away from my cabin.
He follows because men like Jake always follow perceived threats over actual goals.
His pride won't let him ignore another man in these woods.
"I know you're out here!" He's stumbling now, the alcohol and darkness making him clumsy. "Lockwood, is that you, you fucking freak?"
I circle back, letting him chase shadows while I return to Celeste's true path.
By the time Jake realizes he's been following nothing, she'll be safe inside my cabin.
The main door is open when I arrive, her key still in the lock.
Careless, but understandable given the circumstances.
Inside, I find her in my kitchen, trying to wrap her ankle with a dish towel.
Blood seeps through her jeans where she must have scraped her calf on the window ledge.
She's found my first aid supplies already, having gone through multiple drawers to locate them.
Resourceful.
The dish towel is actually a good choice—clean, absorbent.
But her hands are shaking too badly to tie it properly.
"You came," she says, not looking up.
"This is my cabin."
"You know what I mean." She finally meets my eyes, and there's something wild there. Not fear—exhilaration. "You led him away."
"Temporarily. He'll circle back once he realizes he's chasing nothing." I move toward her, noting how she doesn't flinch. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on my floor."
She looks down at the small puddle of red. "Sorry. I'll clean it—"
"Sit." I guide her to the couch, then retrieve my proper medical kit—not the basic first aid supplies she found, but the comprehensive one I keep for real injuries.
It's extensive—when you live isolated and engage in my particular activities, you learn to handle your own wounds. "I need to see your ankle."
She hesitates, then extends her leg.
I kneel in front of her, carefully removing her boot. Her ankle is already swelling, bruised purple-blue, but not broken.
Sprained at worst.
"This might hurt," I warn before gently manipulating the joint, checking for breaks.
She hisses but doesn't pull away. "You've done this before."
"Many times." I wrap her ankle properly, firm but not too tight. "The calf now."
"I can—"
"You can't see it properly. Trust me or bleed out. Your choice."
She stands, unbuttoning her jeans with steady hands, pushing them down to reveal a deep gash along her calf.
It needs cleaning, possibly stitches.
I work in silence, cleaning the wound carefully.
She watches me the entire time, her gaze heavy on my face.
"You're not afraid," I observe.
"Should I be?"
"You're alone with an admitted killer, pants off, bleeding. Most people would be terrified."
"Most people haven't been writing about you their whole career without knowing it." She winces as I apply antiseptic. "Every antihero I've created has pieces of what you are. I just didn't know you were real."
"I'm very real."
"I know." Her hand moves to my hair, fingers threading through it. "Jake's going to be a problem."
"Not for long."
Her fingers tighten. "You can't kill a deputy."
"I can make him disappear in ways that don't involve death. There are worse things than dying, Celeste."
"Like what?"
"Like living with the knowledge that you're nothing. That you're weak. That the one thing you wanted most was never yours to take." I finish bandaging her calf, my hands lingering on her skin. "Jake needs to learn that lesson."
"He said he's been in the house before. During his shifts. Going through my things." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the violation underneath. "My underwear drawer was rearranged last week. I thought I was imagining it."
The rage that floods through me is ice-cold and patient.
Jake has been marking territory, leaving his scent in her space like an animal.
A crash outside makes us both freeze.
Jake's found the cabin.
"Open up!" He's pounding on the door. "I know she's in there! Saw her tracks!"
I stand, moving toward the door, but Celeste grabs my wrist.
"Don't kill him."
"Why?"
"Because I want to watch him suffer slowly. Death's too quick."
I smile at that, dark and genuine. "You really are perfect."
Jake pounds again. "Open the fucking door, Lockwood, or I'll come back with a warrant!"
I open it, keeping my body between him and Celeste.
Jake stands there, swaying, his uniform disheveled and stained with snow and mud.
His gun is unholstered but pointed down.
"Deputy. You're drunk."
"Where is she?"
"Who?"
"Don't play games with me, you psycho fuck. Celeste. I know she's here."
"I'm here," Celeste says, appearing beside me. She's put on one of my shirts, long enough to be decent, but making it clear she's comfortable here. "By choice."
Jake's face contorts. "He's dangerous, Celeste. He's the killer—"
"No," she says calmly. "You're the one who broke into my house. You're the one who chased me through the woods. You're the one with your gun out."
"I have keys! I'm allowed—"
"To enter without permission? While drunk? To chase a woman who was fleeing from you?" I step forward, and Jake steps back. "That sounds like breaking and entering, attempted assault, stalking. Your badge doesn't make you immune to consequences."
"You threatening me?"
"I'm promising you. Leave now, and this ends here. Continue this path, and I'll make sure everyone knows what kind of man you really are. I have cameras, Deputy. Lots of them. Including ones that show you trying her bedroom door while she was sleeping."
Jake's face drains of color. "You're lying."
I pull out my phone, show him the footage from earlier—him testing the Sterling house doors, looking for entry points.
His hand on his gun as he entered.
Him stumbling drunk through the house.
"I also have footage from last Tuesday," I add, swiping to another video. "You entering the house while Sheriff Sterling was at a scene. You were in there for forty-three minutes. Should we watch together? See which rooms you visited?"
Jake's hand tightens on his gun. "You've been spying—"
"I've been protecting. There's a difference." I step closer, and he retreats again. "Leave. Now. Don't come back to this property. Don't go near Celeste again. Or this video goes to the state police, the media, everyone."
"The sheriff will—"
"The sheriff will what? Protect the deputy who's been stalking his daughter? Who's been entering his home without permission? Who chased her through the woods drunk?" I smile coldly. "Sterling may be distracted, but he's not stupid. What do you think he'll do when he sees this footage?"
Jake holsters his gun, backing away. "This isn't over."
"Yes," I say. "It is."
He stumbles back into the darkness, and we listen to him crashing through the woods until the sound fades.
"He'll try again," Celeste says.
"No. He won't." I close the door, lock it. "Men like Jake are cowards. They only attack when they think they can win. Now he knows I'm watching. Now he knows you're under my protection."
"Your protection," she repeats, turning to face me fully. "Is that what I am? Protected?"
"What do you want to be?"
She moves closer, and I can smell her shampoo, something expensive and dark, like violets at night. "I want to be more than protected. I want to be possessed."
"Careful what you wish for."
"I've been careful my whole life." She's close enough now that I can see the pulse in her throat, rapid as a trapped bird. "I've dated safe men, written safe endings to dark stories, lived in a safe city bubble. I'm done with safety."
"I'm not safe."
"I know." She reaches up, her fingers tracing the scar through my eyebrow. "You killed a man for watching me. You've been in my room while I slept. You've read my deleted thoughts, seen my hidden self. You know me in ways that should terrify me."
"But they don't."
"No." Her other hand comes up to my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "They make me feel seen. Chosen. Wanted in a way that has nothing to do with convention and everything to do with recognition."
"Celeste—"
"You said you want to possess me. That you'd kill anyone who tried to hurt me." She rises on her toes, her mouth inches from mine. "Prove it."
"You're injured. You're full of adrenaline. You're not thinking—"
"I'm thinking clearer than I have in years." Her lips brush mine as she speaks. "I'm thinking that I've spent my whole life writing about dangerous men because I was waiting for you. The real thing. Not a character I could control on a page, but someone who could consume me completely."
"If I kiss you," I warn, my hands moving to her waist, "there's no going back. I don't do halfway. I don't share. I don't let go."
"Good."
The word breaks my control.
I crush my mouth to hers, and it's nothing like the romantic kisses she probably writes about.
This is claiming, consuming.
My hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the angle.
She makes a sound that's part gasp, part moan, and I swallow it like communion wine.
She tastes like danger accepted, like choices that can't be undone.
Her nails dig into my chest through my shirt, not pushing away but pulling closer.
When I bite her bottom lip, she bites back harder, drawing blood.
The copper taste only fuels the fire.
This is what I've imagined during all those nights watching her window—not some gentle seduction but this violent collision of mutual hunger.
I spin us, pressing her against the wall, and she wraps her injured leg around my hip despite the pain it must cause.
The little whimper she makes only feeds the fire.
"Mine," I growl against her mouth.
"Yours," she agrees, then pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "And you're mine. My monster. My killer. Mine."
The possessiveness in her voice undoes me.
I kiss her again, harder, darker, the kind of kiss that would terrify a normal woman.
But Celeste kisses back like she's trying to crawl inside me, like she wants to live in the space between my ribs.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
Her lips are swollen, a smear of blood at the corner from where our teeth clashed.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Stay," I say. Not a question.
"I can't. My father will—"
"I'll take you back before dawn. But stay now. Sleep here. Let me watch over you the way I've been wanting to."
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "Just sleep?"
"Just sleep. When I finally have you, it won't be because you're running from someone else. It'll be because you're running to me. Because you choose it with a clear head and healed body."
"I'm choosing now."
"You're choosing escape. I want you to choose to surrender."