Page 177 of Cain
But I’m not.
And if that makes me twisted, if it makes me just as broken as him, I’ll wear it like a crown.
Because as long as I’m his—whatever that means; whatever it costs—nothing else matters.
As long as I’m his, I don’t care what’s left of me.
Tear me apart.
Bury the pieces.
I’ll still whisper his name like a prayer.
I’ll still crawl back to him, smiling.
A month later.
Inever thought peace could feel so much like penance.
The sun sets slower here. From this fourth-floor balcony, the world looks distant, like a painting you can admire but not touch. The traffic hums below, distant enough to forget, close enough to remind me I’m still alive.
My life has changed. It changed the moment I laid my eyes on her. I used to think obsession was power. That it belonged to broken men like me, chasing ghosts or dreams. That’s what it was worth getting obsessed with. Power. Revenge.
Iused to laugh at men who lost themselves over a woman. I thought they were fools and pathetic. Driven by lust or fantasy, chasing shadows.
But now look at me—completely consumed by her.
Not just any woman. She’s carved into my thoughts like a scar that won’t fade. I used to think it took blood, fury, something grand to destroy a man.
Turns out it doesn’t take much.
Just a look. A voice. A gracious presence that contaminates your mind like venom.
I turn my back to the city and lean against the railings, inhaling my cigarette as the cool wind blows on my unbuttoned, sand-colored shirt. It stirs the white curtains inside the apartment as the rays of the orange setting sun wash over the wooden furniture. She’s sleeping on the queen-sized bed, wearing nothing but her black lace thong, nearly hugging my pillow. The wind blows some strands of her hair, making her look more peaceful.
She dyed her hair some shades darker—I still can’t say she’s a brunette, though. She is more like a ginger apricot, but her eyes now look a deeper shade of blue, like the sky on a sunny morning. However, it’s not a significant change. Just enough to slip further into the needs of this new life. I buzzed mine off the same day and shaved my stubble a bit shorter. Besides, I got sick of the mirror showing me the same asshole who fucked everything up. Now, I look like someone else. Feels good. Cleaner. I’m a whole new man. She says I look sexier now, and I make sure to reward her for that every day—and night. Sometimes, even the whole night.
Nobody knows our names here. Nobody cares.
We don’t live big. No mansion, no staff, no champagne bullshit. Just this plain-ass apartment with cheap tile floors, a view of a half-dead palm tree, and each other.
But it’s fucking perfect, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
There’s a big clay pot on the balcony, holding a rose bush that came with the house. Katerina called it a sign, so we bought the place.
She cares for it like it’s alive. Like it breathes for her. She says it reminds her why she fell for me.
She believes the rose symbolizes love. I know it’s something else. I know it’s her obsession, proof she’s already lost herself.
A piece of proof of my twisted manipulation, showing how easily I broke her and made her mine.
Of course, Grayson is behind all this. He’s a fucking tech genius and helped me bypass the prison’s security. He opened every locked door for me and let me do the dirty work, saving my girl.
I passed down to him everything I owned—the company, the ships, the mansion, the houses, and some of my shit to clean behind me. At first, he refused, but I stuck a knife to his throat, and he agreed. I had to make sure he’d be fine without me—his boss, or whatever the hell I am to him.
He bought us this apartment under our new identities here in São Paulo and ensured that we found some horrible jobs to start our new lives.
I am Eric Hoffman now, and I work in a car shop.
