Page 25 of Cry, Little Dove

Skilled surgeon, dangerous criminal, mischievous wannabe cowboy… and now, what? Millionaire?

Cain brings me to a large living space. French doors lead to a roofed terrace with outdoor sofas and a fire pit. The large pool is further out, glittering invitingly in the setting sun.

A wagon wheel repurposed as an electric chandelier hangs from the high ceiling above a sitting area with a dark green velvet sofa and matching armchairs, centered around a huge brick fireplace. The whole house is decorated in shades of deep green, slate, and earthy tones, mixed with wood. Landscape paintings hang on the walls, joined by various animal skulls.

“You hunt?” I ask, padding after Cain.

“Naw, those were my dad’s. But these are mine.” He gestures to bookshelves on the opposite wall of the fireplace and an oak dining table with six chairs.

“You bought them?”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Imadethem. It’s a hobby. I have a small workshop in an old outbuilding. The manual labor keeps me in shape better than any workout, which comes in handy when I gotta wrangle rowdy victims.” He winks and a strange buzz starts in my chest. I clear my throat to get rid of it.

The carpentry explains his muscles and calloused hands. No one gets those from performing surgery.

“Aren’t surgeons usually very careful with their hands?” I ask.

“I’m not practicing anymore,” he says with a decisiveness that makes it obvious the topic is finished.

Is his work a sore spot for him?

Cain stops in an open kitchen and pulls out a bar stool by the island in the middle. I sit with my heart beating fast, pressing my hands to the cold countertop. The kitchen is in keeping with the rest of the house. Dark wooden cabinets and black marble, the perfect unison of rustic charm with a touch of modern sleekness.

Cain fills a tall glass with ice from the family-sized fridge, giving me a chance to ogle him instead of walking behind him like his pet. He wears grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt with an open button down flannel over it, muscles flexing in his forearms, straining against rolled-up sleeves. My eyes are magnetically drawn to the sizeable bulge in his crotch and I blush.

Does he have to be so effortlessly attractive? Being angry would be much easier if my captor was an ugly, unwashed, anti-social cave troll.

“Is soda alright?” he asks, opening the fridge and sticking his head inside.

“Uh. Yes, sure.”

He pours a glass from a fresh bottle and puts it in front of me with a devilish grin. “I’m glad you said yes. You can use a bit of sugar after all the excitement of the past days and it would make me feel like your dad if I had to force you.”

I snort. “I’m not going to call you daddy if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

He laughs. “Not my thing, don’t worry. And I’m notthatmuch older than you. Seven years, actually.”

That means Cain is 37. And of course, the asshole knows my age from my driver’s license.

I shrug, trying to seem like I don’t care and grab the glass. The outside is damp from condensation, and I drink in big gulps, suddenly aware of how thirsty I still am. The soda is deliciously sweet and fizzy.

Cain hums. “But sir, master or Dr. Morrow has a ring to it. You can call me any of those, darlin’.”

I choke on my drink. Apparently choking is my thing around Cain, given that it already happened twice.

He slaps my back while I cough—and if looks could kill, he’d be dead on the spot. “I’d rather die,” I groan.

He raises a brow. “That can be arranged, but I thought we had an understanding. Don’t tell me I’m about to waste an amazing steak on you because you’re planning to get yourself killed by being a brat.”

The word steak gets my attention.

He notices and takes a bundle wrapped in brown paper from the fridge. Carefully, he puts it on the kitchen island to unwrap it. My mouth waters at the sight of two thick pieces of dark red, delicately marbled beef. This is the kind of expensive cut I’ve seen on TV or in magazines.

“A5 Wagyu sirloin. My favorite,” Cain says. “And by the ravenous look in your eyes, it’s about to becomeyourfavorite, too.”

I bristle. “Is it a crime for a grown woman to enjoy a nice steak?”

He shrugs and takes a pan from the cabinets, putting it on the unlit gas stove. With the most self-satisfied grin he turns to me again. “No, but it’s the same way you look atme, darlin’.”

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