TWENTY-EIGHT
I woke to streaks of gold shimmering on pristine white walls, and the smell of cinnamon.
The room was neat – like everything else about Cain.
The bed was soft, the sheets cool, but my body ached in a way that ran deeper than bruises.
And yet, for the first time in ages, I didn’t wake feeling completely alone.
My phone broke the quiet, buzzing incessantly on the nightstand.
I rolled onto my side, groaning as I reached for it, the motion sharpening every lingering ache on my body.
I typed: I’m okay. At a friend’s place. Call later.
But the word snagged in my brain. Was Cain a friend? A friend wouldn’t have looked at me like that. Wouldn’t have gone to war for me.
His eyes flashed behind my lids as I closed them.
I rubbed my face with both hands, as if trying to rub the memories back into the shadows where they belonged, but they came rushing to the surface anyway.
The scene in my flat. Cain’s unrestrained fury as he’d torn through Travis like a bear dismantling a wolf.
It had looked almost supernatural – the sheer force of his movements, their effortless violence.
It had been overwhelming. He’d seemed unstoppable.
Unstoppable and – God help me – irresistible, now that I think back on it.
A warmth spread through my chest.
No one had ever done this for me.
That familiar sense of shame climbed up my spine.
I’d never told anyone how bad things had been with Travis.
Maybe what Cain saw had dredged up something old he still hadn’t quite resolved. A boy who couldn’t stop his dad. A man still haunted by that helplessness.
That squeezed at my heart, guilt settling heavily in my chest. I’d promised him I would be there for him, that I would be his knight in shining armour, and yet I’d dragged him into the worst possible echo of his past. I’d made him relive the pain he had spent years trying to bury.
I shut my eyes tightly again, refusing to let my mind wander into the forbidden – into the dark, selfish corners where I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what might’ve happened if Cain hadn’t come. If I’d been all alone. If Travis had—
No. I couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not ever.
Because Cain had come.
My eyes snapped open at the thought and it rang in my mind like a bell. I stared at the ceiling, my breath in my throat, held there.
Cain had saved my life.
I owed him so much – more than words, more than gratitude.
But even as the weight of that realisation pressed down on me, there was something else, something warmer, blooming quietly in the space between my temples.
Something about Cain, his presence, the way he’d looked at me as if I were worth protecting.
My cheeks flushed as I looked at the sunlight dancing on the walls, my hands curling into the soft sheet beneath me.
I couldn’t put the right label on us – friends, saviours, coworkers – but I knew one thing for certain: whatever this was, I wanted to hold onto it.
After the shower, I felt marginally more human. Hot water had a tendency to make me feel as if it could wash away the remnants of Travis’ terrors.
The room was already warming with the promise of an Italian late-spring day, the heat creeping quietly through the walls.
Grateful that I’d talked myself into shaving my legs yesterday morning, I slipped on a blue, long-sleeved dress, its fabric light enough to stave off the rising temperature but thick enough to cover the bruises.
The hem reached just above my knees, and I was grateful I’d packed it.
The small scarf went around my neck to conceal Ghost’s marks that still kept to my flesh.
The scent of coffee and something sweet greeted me as I padded barefoot into the open-plan area.
Cain stood at the stove, his back turned, his movements fluid but unhurried. His midnight long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his back, every movement rippling with muscle. His tracksuit bottoms hugged narrow hips, and my gaze lingered too long where the waistband hung.
Behind him, Vinnie sat in a white muscle shirt and cream linen trousers, bare feet hooked under the bar stool, staring at his steaming mug. His forefinger fiddled with the handle while he organised his thoughts behind that rarely serious face.
Cain glanced over his shoulder. His amber eyes glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window, ablaze as if lit from within.
‘Good morning,’ he said in a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the room – and me.
‘How are you doing, sweetheart?’ Vinnie slapped on that suave smile as he shifted sideways on the stool.
I managed a delayed ‘Good morning,’ my words a little shaky as I slid onto the barstool beside Vinnie.
The bar separated the kitchen from the rest of the near-cavernous space.
‘I hope you like crêpes,’ Cain added, flipping the last one with a slightly awkward motion before stacking it on a small mountain of golden, paper-thin layers.
‘I’ve added cinnamon. There’s fresh coffee in the moka pot.
’ He nodded towards the counter as he shut off the stove and wiped his hands on a tea towel.
‘I got it,’ Vinnie said, already shuffling through the mugs.
My stomach growled softly at the sight.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, my voice slightly more consistent this time.
‘Did you get any sleep?’ Cain asked, his tone casual, but his brow quirked in a way that made my skin prickle.
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. ‘I have.’
Vinnie shook his head, his grin both mischievous and infuriating.
‘We’ll take good care of you,’ he said. ‘You look better. That bruise, though…’ He pointed at my temple and cheekbone. ‘It’ll stick around for a week, at least.’
Placing the mug of hot coffee in front of me, he withdrew.
I wrapped my hands around it, letting the warmth bleed into my palms. The scent curled up in faint steam ribbons, earthy and bitter, grounding me more than the caffeine ever could. I must’ve drifted off for longer than I realised, because when I looked up, the tension in the room had changed.
‘I’ll be off,’ Vinnie said suddenly, pushing off from the counter. He and Cain exchanged one of those silent male telepathies I hadn’t yet learnt how to translate.
Then Vinnie slowed his gait towards the exit. ‘You’ll hate me for this, but there’s an interview this afternoon. New York Times. Low-key, no cameras.’
He hesitated, his eyes catching on my bruised brow, then Cain – at the way he leaned closer to me, the softened tone he used.
Something tight passed over his face.
Cain’s jaw flexed. ‘We can reschedule.’
‘Not really one we can push,’ his friend challenged, his smile never reaching his eyes. ‘She flew in.’
I took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s okay. A distraction sounds good. Cain?’ I prompted gently.
‘Hm?’
I lifted my brows just slightly. ‘Are you okay doing it?’
There was a beat of silence – a pause thick enough to register. His expression changed. Relaxed. His eyes locked onto mine, unblinking. And in that second, I realised something: I don’t think people asked him that very often.
‘Yeah…’ he said, voice low. ‘Yeah. I am.’
At the door, Vinnie stopped, grabbed his flip-flops, and paused. The weight of his gaze lingered – not on my bruise this time, but on something invisible between Cain and me.
‘I’ll see you both later,’ he said, too tightly. Then closed the door with a thud – just a fraction too loud.
I stared after him, guilt twisting my gut for some reason.
He meant well. He always had. I wondered what else he’d seen that had put him down so hard. Was my attraction to Cain so obvious that Vinnie could pick up on it?
The moment pulled at me, but I pushed it aside with a shaky inhale, choosing instead to focus on the man in front of me. The man who had saved me.
‘Cain,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though it still sounded far too soft. ‘I want to thank you for last night.’
He sobered instantly, then shook his head as he set the plates and the cutlery between us. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.’
His hand lingered on the plate, thumb brushing the ceramic as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. Then he bent forward, bracing his palms on the counter, gaze drifting out the window.
‘Did I scare you last night?’
I wasn’t sure if it was the question that caught me off guard or the gentleness in his voice.
I set my fork down, my appetite momentarily forgotten as I looked up at him. His words were weighted with something I couldn’t immediately place. Blame? Fear?
Trying to understand the concept behind the question, I studied his face. I had been dead scared before he’d arrived. I didn’t think it would have been possible for me to be scared of him after everything. Not when he’d stood between death and me.
The powerful presence he’d exuded last night was still there, but now it was tempered by vulnerability, an openness that tugged at something sore in my ribs.
‘No,’ I said softly, shaking my head as I held his gaze. ‘You didn’t scare me.’ I paused, willing him to hear the truth in my voice. ‘You have no idea…’ I paused again, not trying to sound too needy. ‘When you barged in, I was so relieved.’
Cain’s teeth clenched at my response, the muscles there working overtime. His eyes searched mine, looking for cracks, for any trace of fear I wasn’t admitting to.
‘You can tell me the truth,’ he said quietly, uncertain in a way that seemed almost out of character for him. ‘You don’t see me… as someone losing control?’
Oh…
I blinked. Twice. That slow ache in my chest spreading.
I tipped forward, the heat of the mug tethering me to reason.
‘Not even a little. What you did last night…’ I hesitated, breath catching. ‘No one’s ever done that for me. I owe you.’
He shook his head dismissively. ‘That’s nonsense. You don’t owe me a thing.’
Before I could argue, he grabbed a plate, dropped a crêpe onto it, and slid it in front of me with a casual efficiency that didn’t match the conversation.