Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Caine
Whatever emotional vulnerability we found on the front porch washes down the drain with the blood.
Post-shower Margot is pensive and too polite, with that infuriating okay-ness that means everything isn’t.
Obviously it isn’t—there were buckets of blood on the front porch.
My attempts to see how she’s feeling are dodged, and she immediately retires to her room after we’ve done the dinner dishes.
She says she has work to finish up and then she plans on turning in.
I do need to start planning what remodeling I want to do at the Abattoir, so I reluctantly settle into my workflow.
It’s a little after midnight when I decide to call it.
Rising from my desk, I walk to the window.
It overlooks the side yard, but it’s too dark to see anything.
The idea that Nicholas could be lurking has me gripping my phone tight, wishing it were his throat.
While I’m glad Margot wasn’t here for his little vandalism moment, I wish I had been.
He’s a bully, plain and simple. A manipulative piece of shit who’s probably used to talking his way out of trouble, relying on the fact that in person, most people are conflict-averse.
All I need is five minutes; I’m positive I can convince him to fuck off back to Texas.
If he won’t see reason, then I’m not opposed to taking more permanent measures.
Stretching, I leave the bedroom. A glass of water wouldn’t hurt. Neither would double-checking the locks on the doors and windows. A glance down the hallway reveals Margot’s door is closed, no light coming from beneath.
Quietly, I head downstairs. I’m nearly there when a soft scream makes the hair on my arms rise and I skip the last two steps, racing toward the sound.
A second later, blue-gray light flashes into the entryway.
In the dark living room, Margot’s silhouette is only visible when the television flashes especially bright.
“Hey,” she says without turning. “Sorry, is it too loud?”
“No, not at all.” I drop onto the couch beside her. “Just restless, thought I’d do a walk-through. Why are you up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes are locked on the screen.
I don’t recognize the movie, but the film quality makes me think it’s from the ’80s.
It’s clearly horror. On the television, a grimy, bloody woman is cranking a garrote tighter and tighter on the throat of a man, who’s clawing and scrabbling to get away.
They’re in a campsite, the bright yellow pop of tents against stark greenery aesthetically pleasing. A still of this shot could be iconic.
“I’m moving out.” She tucks her knees up in front of her, pulling her big T-shirt over them. “Nicholas won’t stop until he gets whatever he wants or he’s made to.”
No fucking way and I will handcuff us together are on the tip of my tongue, a millisecond from leaping between my lips. I keep my mouth shut, unwilling to open it until I’m certain I won’t say something that pisses her off and makes her double down.
Finally, I speak. “Where are you going?”
“An apartment. Airbnb. Anywhere that isn’t Claire and Shane’s house.”
Grinding my teeth, I count to ten before answering, trying to strike the right level of nonchalance. It’s a losing battle; I’m 100 percent chalance when it comes to her. “Well, let me know once you decide where. I’ll repack my suitcase.”
“By myself.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“If I want to leave, I’ll fucking leave.” Hard and sharp, her anger burns so hot I’m surprised the sofa doesn’t go up in flames. “Alone. You can’t keep me here.”
Angry Margot isn’t a stranger. I’ve met her plenty of times, and she’s pretty impressive. This is different, though. There’s an edge of desperation on the words, a near-mindless fear that makes me feel like she’d gnaw off a limb to get out.
“All right.” My own voice is even. On the screen, the man’s head pops off in a torrent of blood and strategic camera angles. I can’t keep from commenting, “That is the definition of an unhappy camper.”
Margot snorts, rage momentarily forgotten. “He deserved it.”
“They always do.”
We stay like that, watching the movie, but I’m watching her too.
Stealing sneaky glances at her profile in the blue glow of the television.
When the credits roll, she makes no move to get up, letting the streaming service play right into the next movie in the queue, The Descent.
As we watch a group of women begin a caving expedition, the tension finally eases from her body.
I take a U-turn back to the worst idea in the world.
“Why are you leaving?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
I disagree but don’t interrupt.
“What kind of person am I if I tangle you, Claire, and Shane up in this? They’re gone, but it’s their house, so that’s involving them.”
An argument is on the tip of my tongue, but I wait her out.
“I put myself in this spot, and I’ll figure it out.”
Margot blaming herself for an abusive relationship breaks my verbal self-control. “No, you did not. Just because you were together doesn’t mean he gets to make you miserable for the rest of your life. This is not your fault.”
“It is.” She turns, repositioning to look directly at me. “You want honesty?”
“Of course.”
“I pushed Nicholas through the window.”
“Okay.”
Between my research and the note left with War, this isn’t shocking information. Her telling me is, though.
“Why?”
“He wasn’t going to let me go. He tried to take the laptop from me.”
Stretching an arm along the back of the couch, I toy with a strand of her hair. “Seems reasonable to me.”
“Are you really about to cosign that?” On the screen, pale creatures hunt the women through the cave.
“Yes.”
She rolls her eyes. The motion shoots straight to my cock.
It could be the late hour, or the fact that I can’t stop mentally replaying her coming on my lap, but I say the least helpful thing possible.
“Every time you roll your eyes at me, all I can think about is making them roll like that when I’m buried between your legs. ”
She startles but recovers fast. “I pushed my husband through a window. That doesn’t worry you?”
I bristle. “Ex-husband. And no, not a bit.”
The television glow reflects on her face.
Physically, Margot’s body is on the couch beside me, but mentally, she’s in the past. I know what it looks like when someone’s wandering through a memory they wish they could exorcise.
Before I can pull her back to the present, she murmurs softly, “I always thought I was a decent person. Not amazing, but okay.” Even lower, she adds, “But I pushed my husband through a window and didn’t cry until I realized he was going to live. What does that say about me?”
“It says you’re not willing to martyr yourself on an asshole’s altar.
” Tangling my fingers in her hair, I gently turn her face toward me.
“He thought he could back you into a corner, trap you, so he had to learn the hard way that you have claws. I know you have them. I like them.” Like is an understatement—I love them.
I love them so much that I would say thank you while being cut to ribbons.
Emotion flashes on her face. In typical Margot fashion, she hides it behind prickles. “Your instincts are questionable.”
Twining a tendril around my finger, I fight the urge to grab a fistful of her wavy blonde hair and haul her into my lap. “I’d say they’re pretty damn good. Fantastic even, because I’d never make you choose between yourself and me.”
I lean toward her, and she lets me move all the way in. Faces dangerously close, I fight to honor the bet. When her tongue darts out to wet her lips, I almost lose it, a groan escaping my chest. I force myself to speak, because if I’m talking, I’m not kissing her.
“If you’re ever in a corner again, I’ll be right beside you, making sure you get out.” I swallow hard. “The only way I’m going to put your back to the wall is to fuck you against it.”
Margot hasn’t moved away, and her toothpaste-minty breath skates across my lips.
I inhale greedily, wetting my bottom lip with my tongue as I surreptitiously try to taste her.
Her pupils are huge, breasts heaving beneath her T-shirt.
It’s a miracle my cock hasn’t ripped through the front of my sweatpants.
There’s a current running between us, electricity sparking, and I’m beyond ready to be electrocuted.
“Caine.”
“Margot.” Apparently, we’re using first names now.
“Take me upstairs and fuck me.”
The world shifts on its axis. Angels sing. Confetti flies through my brain.
“Yes, ma’am.”