Page 26 of Cry, Little Dove

My face is on fire. I huff as I reach into the glass and take out an ice cube, defiantly putting it in my mouth. That way, I don’t have to answer. A good thing, too, so I don’t say something stupid.

I never look at him like that. Probably not. Hopefully not?

While I sulk in silence, sucking on ice cubes, Cain pre-heats the oven and whisks around the kitchen like a pro.

“Do you have any food allergies or intolerances?” he asks, taking a tray of raw fries from the fridge. They’ve clearly been cut by hand, slathered in oil and herbs.

“Not that I know of.”

“Great!” He nods, sliding the tray into the oven.

For a man who takes such great pleasure in tormenting me, he’s sure considerate.

A considerate kidnapper. Who would’ve thought?

If I ignore all the red flags, Cain is pure husband material. I shake my head, lightly slapping my cheeks. Why am I even considering something so ridiculous?

But Nate would never ask me about allergies. He wouldn’t cook for me in the first place, though.

I listen to Cain’s gravelly, melodious humming while he washes and cuts ingredients for a salad, tossing them into a big bowl. Lettuce, peppers, red onions, and carrot slices topped with parmesan shavings. In a jar, he prepares a lemon vinaigrette for later.

I addchefto my mental list of different men he is.

When I woke up in his basement of medical horrors—and ugh, fine, pleasures as well—the last thing I expected was him cooking for me. But with the way my life has been turned on its head, this isn’t the craziest thing to happen.

“Where are we?” I ask, expecting him to make some evasive joke as he usually does.

“Hill Country. Roughly an hour and a half from San Antonio.”

My brows arch. He took me far from North Texas.

Since Cain seems to be in a talkative mood, I decide to use the opportunity to get more information out of him. The more I know, the better my chances of escape. After seeing the cosmetics in the bathroom, finding out if he has an accomplice is high on the list of valuable topics, but I can’t just ask. I have to be clever about it.

“Your house is beautiful, but so large for one person,” I remark. “Doesn’t it get a little lonely?”

He washes a bundle of asparagus and a zucchini while he answers. “I enjoy the quiet. When I was a boy, my parents tore down the old ranch house they inherited from my dad’s folks and built this one. I had it renovated and redecorated a few years ago.”

I exhale with quiet relief. No wife or live-in girlfriend. At least I only have to worry about him, not a whole family of killers trying to murder me. That’s what I care about,absolutely notthat he’s single.

“What happened to your parents?” I ask before I can stop myself.

A hitch runs through his hand as he picks up the knife to slice the vegetables. “A drunk driver.” He pauses, the thunk of the blade on the cutting board breaking the tense silence. “The drunk driver was my mother. She was pretty good at knowing her limits, but she had too much that day and wrapped the car around a tree like a fuckin’ ribbon.”

My insides wring tight. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s the impact of an addict as a parent. The drug habits of mine derailed my life from the day I was born.

I chew on my cheek. “I’m sorry, Cain,” I mumble. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but nothing ever does when the topic is so complex and heavy.

“Don’t worry. I’m a big guy. I can take care of myself,” he says, a somber note ringing in his voice, and a twinge of empathy has me wondering if he’s as lonely as he sounds.

The conversation fizzles, and Cain continues cooking. He cleans the mess in the kitchen while we wait for the veggies to grill and the steak to finish sizzling in the pan. The knife and cutting board are drying on a dish towel by the sink. It seems he likes things to be neat and tidy.

Soon, he puts cutlery wrapped in a linen napkin and a huge plate of steaming food in front of me. My stomach growls when I smell the perfectly seared steak, grilled asparagus and zucchini with garlic, thick, herby fries, and zesty salad. After he refills my drink, Cain gets himself some dinner and a glass of soda, too.

I glance at his plate. He’s given himself the smaller steak.

“Wow. This looks amazing,” I say, grabbing my fork first, then my knife. A sharp, long, serrated steak knife. My eyes narrow.

Cain tuts. “Don’t even think about it, little dove.”

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