Page 55 of Cain

I don’t speak. His hand slides from my forehead to the back of my neck, and I shudder involuntarily. I want to pull away, but his grip is firm, his touch electrifying.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, his voice soft. “You can trust me.”

I swallow hard. He’s undeniably hot, undeniably dangerous, and yet all I can think about is his hands on me.

“I’m not scared,” I lie, unable to look away from his eyes.

“Good. Because the moment you stop being scared, little rose, is when you become mine.”

“You can’t just decide who lives and who dies,” I mutter in an attempt to stand up for my beliefs and common sense.

“Can’t I?” he asks, his eyes darting all over my face. “People die every day, love. Some of them deserve it. Some of them don’t. The difference is, I get to choose.”

A shiver runs through me. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“Then don’t ask him for help.” He leans in so close I can feel his breath scraping my cheek. “Simple, isn’t it?”

My throat tightens. “You’re bluffing.”

“You’ll see.”

I hate the way my breath stutters. I hate the way my body is still tingling from his closeness. But most of all, I hate that deep, deep down, I believe him. I believe that he will kill him in a heartbeat if he senses the slightest thing going wrong. But I also believe him that he won’t hurt me. And I hate myself for that.

The shudders consume my body, and I shake uncontrollably. I’m so cold at the moment.

He stands and walks to the closet. He takes one more blanket, brings it to me, and covers me with it as well.

Slowly, he caresses my hair back and studies my face once again. “Rest, little rose.”

Before he pulls away, I grab his wrist weakly. I can see a mild surprise in his expression. “Stay for a while,” I murmur.

I have no idea why I ask. Maybe it’s the fact that he takes care of me in ways that no one else has. He pays attention to my suffering, and he doesn’t close the door and let me deal with it alone like my parents used to do. He is there, trying, noticing, all in his own twisted way.And I can’t deny that it makes me feel good. No matter how sick this makes me, it’s the truth.

Carefully, he slides under the blanket, sits right next to me, and extends his arm so I can slip into his embrace. I’m in such need of comfort at the moment that I simply obey, crawl into his arms, and rest my cheek on his chest.

His strong arm circles around my shoulder, making me feel tiny in his embrace. I feel awkward. Of course, I do. I just asked my cruel, killer captor to hug me, and he did it.

And he did it tenderly.

The way it should be done.

The way I never expected him to do it.

The way I needed it.

I don’t allow my hands to touch him—that would be too much. Too much intimacy with a killer that has kidnapped me.

He doesn’t speak; he seems calm and indifferent, but his heartbeat tells a different story. It’s pounding under his chest, as if he feels awkward as well.

Is he capable of feeling awkward?

“Did you really kill that man you were talking about the other day?” I ask, praying he’ll say something to make him redeem himself in my eyes. Wishing he’d try to justify himself, saying that he only threatened to kill him in the heat of the moment.

But instead, he says one word.

“Yes.”

My heart jumps.