Page 53 of Cain

I freeze for a moment, my mind racing to make sense of his words.

“Whose fault?” I ask, shaking him vehemently.

A gunshot rings out, and he flinches, but I don’t. The barrage of bullets is still ongoing, but they’re not targeting me. They know better.

His eyes flicker to the side. He’s looking for his last backup. His escape.

“Look at me.” I yank his face back to mine. “Answer me!” I take my gun off my holster and press it against his jaw. “Whose fault is it?”

“Don’t … I have a family!”

“You should have thought of them before you chose to make an enemy out of me.”

Torres trembles, his breath ragged. His hands grip my wrist, desperate, useless.

“Please,” he chokes out.

I press the gun harder against his jaw. “Begging doesn’t suit you.” I shoot his shoulder, his blood splashing all over my face. He screams in pain.

I’m running out of patience.

His eyes dart again. He’s still hoping. Still stupid.

Then a gunshot rings out, and more blood splashes on my face. The light is fading from his eyes. No!

He’s dead … Fuck, who did this?

My eyes scan the place, but I see nothing unusual. Just men rushing around and killing each other.

Damn it, now I’m on ground zero again.

It’s one of those days again. One of those shitty days that out of nowhere, my body decides to betray me with a fever. But I’m not sick. I know it’s the stress and the constant pressure. Being stuck in this madman’s house feels suffocating. I don’t even know why I craved his approval in the first place. Why the hell did I bother dressing up, trying to impress him? What was I thinking?

Maybe it was the rose scent that pulled me back to the first time I spoke to him when I thought he was just a charming gentleman. But now I see the truth. He’s insane. I still can’t shake the image of him carving my initials into his hand. Why the hell would he dothat?

But then … there are moments when he’s not like that. When he’s gentle, when he speaks softly, it’s like he’s someone I could trust, someone I could care for. When he plays or talks about the piano. His music. He changes. There are moments like this when I find myself worrying whether he’s in pain from the carving. It’s been two days. It must still be hurting him.

Ugh, I’m so fucked up.

He knows exactly how to twist my emotions, how to make me feel chosen, like I’m the only thing that exists in his world. One moment, I’m almost stupid enough to believe whatever twisted version of love he’s feeding me, and the next, I’m paralyzed with fear, knowing he could break me without a second thought.

I can’t seem to escape this pull. One second, I want to believe in him, and the next, I’m too scared to move, unsure if I’m safe or just another pawn in his twisted game. How did I get here? How did I let him get inside my head like this?

Once again, my eyes won’t open properly. I’m burning from the inside, and with me, the sheets are burning, too. However, this horrible pain that spreads throughout my body, along with the shivers, exhausts me to the core.

There’s a knock on the door. I’m really not in the mood.

“Yeah?” I mumble weakly.

The door opens. “Hello, Miss Ružicková. I brought you some tea.” Eleanor walks closer to me, holding a silver tray with a teapot and two cups in it.

“I don’t want anything,” I say, my voice laced with shudders.

“Some warm tea will help you feel better.” She places the tray on my nightstand and presses her hand on my forehead. “Didn’t you take the pills?”

“I’m not sick. It won’t pass like that. I just have to endure it.”

She doesn’t understand. Why would she?