Page 41 of Cry, Little Dove

There is a lightness inside me, one I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m not sure if I ever felt it at all before.

Perhaps I should be shocked by my reflection, covered in bruises. Some fresh, purple or blue, others faded and yellow. There are small cuts, too. A few red and sore, others scabbed and healing. A handful of pink scars.

It’s sick, but I love looking at the marks almost as much as I love the way it feels when Cain imprints them on me. They remind me of art. Dots of colors like little flowers and neat cuts like an abstract, geometric painting.

He’s careful to only mark me in places concealed by regular street clothes, except for the trail of bruises his fingers regularly leave on the tender skin of my throat. When we went to the concert, I hid those under a wide choker, but not for my sake. I didn’t want strangers asking questions.

Quietly singing to myself, I hop in the shower. My mood is disgustingly good, but how can it not be after last night? I had the best date and met my favorite band. Then I had amazing sex in the car and more amazing sex back at home.

Home.

The word rings through me like the tolling of a bell.

Without me noticing, this house has become my home. A home I share with the sicko who kidnapped me and takes great pleasure in hurting me. And I—

I’m enjoying myself. I like it here.

I’m… happy?

Happiness was never a thing for me. Being okay-ish was always the best I could do. Barely getting by was normal, and I considered myself lucky for it. Many people had it so much worse than me, even at my lowest. I had no right to complain.

But then Cain happened.

Suddenly, bare minimum isn’t enough anymore. I can’t gaslight myself into lowering my standards or accepting misery like I deserve it.

Everything Cain does is thoughtful in the most infuriatingly smug and forcefully caring way. Every day, he prepares healthy, balanced meals for me and makes me drink the recommended amount of water. I don’t have to lift a finger around the house. All chores are done by him or the maid, and I’m free to spend my time however I want.

I try not to ask for stuff because I don’t want Cain to think I’m after his money. But whenever I do need something, even if I mention it in passing or he catches me looking at stuff online, he doesn’t just buy it for me. No, he gets a whole selection so I can pick my favorites.

Like that collection of bikinis in the walk-in closet or the gift set of my favorite perfume I found in the bathroom on the first day. He confessed he bought it especially for me… and another two as backups, in case I run out.

Cain doesn’t leave me a choice but to care for myself and treat my body with gentleness. I don’t like how warm and tingly my belly gets whenever I think about that.

I drown those complicated emotions in a hot shower, lathering myself up and forgetting about the world. Once I’m done, I slink out of the bathroom, but my brows shoot up when I see that the bed is empty.

A hint of disappointment trickles through me. I planned to wake Cain by rubbing every silky inch of my freshly washed, shaved, and perfumed self all over him. No such luck.

I glance around the room before peeking into the walk-in closet, but he’s nowhere to be found. He probably went downstairs to get started on a late breakfast… or more like lunch. My mouth waters when I try to imagine what delicacies he’ll come up with. He’s an exceptional cook, and every dish he made for me so far has been incredible.

I put on velvet tracksuit pants and a simple black top before strolling barefoot out into the hallway, when bright laughter has me freezing on the spot.

A woman’s laughter.

“Oh my God, Cain! Stop teasing me!” a voice trills.

A sick feeling drops to my stomach.

This isn’t the housekeeper. She comes on Monday and Thursday, not Saturday, and she’s a middle-aged lady with a raspy voice. I like to think Cain would tell me if he expects any guests. He would want to make sure I keep our story straight and don’t get any stupid ideas.

Who the fuck has the audacity to drop by unannounced?

“You make it way too easy,” Cain responds, his tone warm and affectionate.

My nails score my palms and bile burns my throat while I follow the sound of the conversation. The door to his office—the one room he usually locks—is open a crack, and I peer inside.

My pulse stutters.

A tall woman stands by a large oak desk and her wavy blond hair sways as she giggles. Her side profile seems vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen her in a commercial or something.

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