Page 34 of Cain

“Put. That. Down.”

The guy’s gaze lingers on Landon for a few more seconds, and he eventually lowers his gun.

“Move,” Landon growls, shoving Eleanor again.

After giving him a furious glance and unable to oppose him, she walks away, and he walks right after her.

My heart is racing. I’m left with the weird dude. He prowls closer to me while holding the gun in his hand.

Shit …

My eyes drop to the ground as my back presses against the counter. He steps closer, staring me down. Clicking his tongue, he runs his gun through my hair.

“It’s late, doll,” he quips, tracing the muzzle over my cheek. “It’s not wise for little girls to stay outside their rooms at this hour. Listen to Uncle Bruce.”

His voice alone makes my skin crawl. And now he’s tracing a gun on my face.

“Then let me go,” I say through clenched teeth.

He chuckles. “I’m not your captor, love. Even though …” He presses the cold barrel of his gun against my throat, his lips curling into a twisted grin. “A woman like you shouldn’t be out there on her own. Too many monsters lurking around.”

I gulp forcefully. “Good night.”

He lowers his head, his gaze never leaving mine. God, he’s scary as hell. Without breaking eye contact, I slide away from him before marching straight to my bedroom.

I close the door and hear it lock, as though it’s part of an automatic security system.

Where the hell am I?

Iwake up from a nightmare, though that’s nothing unusual for me. Seeing my parents and the house I grew up in is routine. The unusual thing is that when most people dream of their parents, they think of home. Security. Calmness. But that isn’t the case for me. I never felt good in my own house.

The house always felt cold when my father was angry. Not the kind of anger that exploded into shouting or slammed doors. That would have been easier. His rage was quiet and controlled. It was the kind of cold that made me feel small and unprotected.

Like the night thatI?—

I stood in the dim hallway, my stomach twisting itself into knots. My father was in front of me, calm and composed. He wasn’t yelling, cursing, or slamming his hand on the table. That wasn’t his style. His fury was silent in the way his eyes bored into mine like I was a problem to be solved.

“You don’t listen,” he said with a smooth voice. That was the worst part. How calm he always was when he hurt me. “You were told you couldn’t go out. And yet, you thought you could do whatever you wanted.”

“I—” My voice shook. “It was just a few hours. Just my friends?—”

He didn’t react. No change in his expression, no shift in his stance. He didn’t care that I hadn’t done anything reckless, that I hadn’t been sneaking off to meet some older guy or to drink behind the school. He didn’t care that I just wanted to feel normal for one night.

I turned my head toward my mother, searching for something in her face. She stood slightly behind him, arms crossed, staring past me at the wall like she wasn’t really there, like this wasn’t happening.

“Mom—” My voice cracked. I hated how weak I sounded. “Please.”

Her lips parted slightly. I thought, for a second, that she might speak. That she might tell him this was too much, that I didn’t deserve this. But then her mouth closed, and she looked away.

My chest clenched so tightly it hurt.

My father moved first. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. Itwasn’t enough to bruise me but enough to make his point.

“In.”

I swallowed hard. My legs locked into place. I didn’t want to move.

His grip tightened.