Page 39 of Tied

Chapter 19

Riley

“Your parents’ graves?”

Cain nods while pinning me down with a stern expression. Could he really be cruel and cunning enough to use his parents like that just to gain my trust and obedience?

I don’t want to believe that.

I want to believe that he’s being honest with me, and while he may have ulterior motives for doing so, he could have an earnest desire to be real with me.

I want to believe that. I want to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this? Why are you telling me your real name?”

“Because I want you to know,” he simply says.

“So, are you going to kill me after all of this is done?”

His eyes widen in shock, and I wish I knew whether it was because what I said hit the nail on the head, or whether my assumption is outrageous and far from the truth.

“Why the fuck would you say that?” he snarls at me furiously.

“If you let me go after I do what you need me to do, I could just go to the police and turn you in. Isn’t that what any reasonable person would do?”

Cain shakes his head swiftly and shifts positions, causing the bed to creak under his motions.

“I trust you. I trust that you won’t go to the police after,” he says. “And frankly, even if you did turn me in, I haven’t used my real name in a long time so there is really no trail for them to follow. Cain Preston disappeared off the radar shortly after my father died.”

“When was that?”

“I was fourteen,” he states in a sharp voice, averting his eyes from mine.

My heart sinks in an instant. “You were fourteen when you lost your parents?”

“Fourteen when I lost my father, nine when they killed my mother,” he clarifies. “It was my father’s own fault, really, because he was the one who got involved with the Covey in the first place. It started like it often does. He needed the money. My parents were dead poor when I was born, had to fight to keep themselves and their baby alive—the perfect desperate combination that leads a man to start a life of crime. My father was susceptible to the Covey’s promise. Just one small job, that’s how it started. Then came another, and another. And with every job, he told himself that it would be the last one. It’s a lie that a lot of people tell themselves when they get involved in that lifestyle.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath as he turns his face away, his dark eyes now resting on the sheets beneath us. His whole posture looks like that of a man carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, a burden of guilt and sadness created by bad memories.

“Then one day he decided that he really wanted to get out,” he continues in a voice lower than before. “I don’t even know what exactly he did for them, but they wanted him for another job and he said no. Apparently they had told him that he could get out after the last job he’d done for them, but when he tried to make them hold up that agreement, they not only refused, but claimed they had never made him that promise. So my father—being naive as he was—thought he’d just quit on his own. He thought he could just hand in his notice and walk away like you could with any other job, any real job.”

He lets out a sinister laugh and I see his hands tightening around the handle of the basket. As I watch his knuckles turn white, a telltale sign of the agony that these memories provoke in him, I can’t help but consider this a chance for me. I know he’s telling me the truth. He’s opening up to me, he’s sharing something very personal and hurtful about his past.

He’s vulnerable.

I can use this. I should use this to my advantage. But how?

It’s simple psychology that people grow dependent on those who provide them with comfort and safety. He was playing the same game with me by sending that revolting thug into my room to scare me so he could emerge as my knight in shining armor a moment later. A hero who then turns up in my room with a picnic basket full of treats meant to warm me up to him.

I could do the same thing to him.

I could be his hero.

He looks surprised when I place my hand on top of his, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes rest on the back of my hand, watching while I gently curl my fingers around his, adding a calming squeeze.

“Your father tried to do the right thing,” I whisper, mildly impressed by my own acting skills.

“Emphasis on tried,” Cain responds briskly. “He couldn’t get out, and he should have known that before he ever got involved with those assholes. He tried to walk away despite their threats. That’s when they killed my mother.”

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