Page 120 of Cain
Is he dead?
I gasp, my heart slamming against my ribs as I rush forward, nearly slipping on the sleek marble floor. My hands plunge into the water, gripping his shoulders, pulling him up with all my strength.
He’s not moving. Oh God. Oh God.
My breath catches. A sob claws at my throat. No. No, no, no?—
Then, his eyes open, lazy and indifferent.
He blinks up at me, unfazed. “What is it, little rose?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I squeal, pushing him back. The urge to slap him is invincible.
“Relaxing.”
“That’s how you relax?”
“Sometimes.” A wicked and alluring smirk spreads across his lips as he rests his arms on the edge of the tub, watching me. “Sometimes I have to torture someone.”
“Very funny.” I roll my eyes, taking a step back. He scared the hell out of me.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“What’s what?”
“Is that concern I see on your pretty face?” He lifts a brow, amusement in his eyes.
“No.” I scoff, folding my arms. “I just mean … if you die, what happens to me?”
He leans back into the water, exhaling slowly. “Then you’ll be free.”
Freedom…
Why don’t I believe in that word anymore? Or better yet, why does it feel like a lie? A fantasy meant for people who have the luxury of choosing it. Not for me. Not in my case.
I look at him, sitting there, calm in his silence, and the thought of liberty feels absurd. Because when I’m near him, it’s the only time I don’t feel trapped.
I’m not free. Not at all.
But he doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know the way my pulse stutters when I think I’ve lost him. The panic that churns in my stomach when the thought of being without him crawls into my head.
He doesn’t need to know. So, I choke back my fears and remain defensive.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. He leans forward just slightly, resting his arms on the edge of the tub again, dragging his fingers against the surface.
“You assume I’d just die and leave you behind? That I’d let you go so easily?”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Tell me, little rose,” he murmurs, reaching for me, his wet fingers curling softly around my wrist. “What would you do if I were gone?”
I don’t pull away. Maybe I should. Maybe that would prove something.
But I don’t.
Instead, I hold his gaze, my pulse drumming against his ears. “I’d survive.”
