CHAPTER 1
Ripley
The chicken needs to be perfect.
I adjust the heat on the burner, watching the oil shimmer in the cast iron skillet.
Not too hot—if I burn it, he'll know.
He always knows.
The meat is seasoned exactly how he likes it: salt, pepper, garlic powder, and a hint of paprika.
No rosemary. He hates rosemary.
I made that mistake once, eight months into our relationship, and I still remember the way he looked at me.
Like I was stupid. Like I was nothing.
I learned.
The apartment smells like garlic and vanilla sugar air freshener—his favorite.
The floors are swept, the dishes put away, the bathroom scrubbed until my knuckles ached.
I showered an hour ago, shaved everything, dried my hair the way he likes it—down and soft, no ponytail.
Ponytails are lazy, he says.
I glance at the clock. 4:57.
He should be home any minute.
My stomach clenches, that familiar knot of dread tightening beneath my ribs.
I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in.
I never know.
Some days he walks through the door and pulls me into his arms, calls me baby, tells me I'm beautiful.
Those days feel like a reward. Other days...
The lock turns.
I straighten my spine, smooth my hands over the front of my dress—the navy blue one he bought me, the one that hugs my hips and makes my waist look smaller.
I paste on a smile. Not too big, not too eager. Just welcoming.
The door swings open, and Cain steps inside.
He's still wearing his cut—the leather vest with the Saint's Outlaws patch on the back, the Enforcer rocker beneath it.
His dark hair is disheveled, his jaw tight, his eyes hard.
I know that look. Something happened at the clubhouse.
My smile falters. I catch it, hold it in place.
