"Go inside," I tell her. My voice comes out flat. Emotionless. The voice I use when I'm giving orders I expect to be obeyed.
She doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear me.
"Ripley." Softer this time. Something I didn't intend creeping into my tone. "Go inside. Now."
She looks up then.
Meets my eyes for just a moment.
I don't know what she sees in my face, but whatever it is makes her nod.
She moves past Cain—giving him a wide berth, like he's a wild animal that might strike—and hurries toward the clubhouse door.
I watch her go.
When the door closes behind her, I turn back to Cain.
He's watching me with something wary in his eyes. Smart man. He should be wary. "We got a problem here, Prez?" he asks. Still trying to play it cool. Still trying to pretend everything's fine.
I take a long drag of my cigarette. Blow the smoke out slowly. Let him wait.
"That your ol’ lady?" I ask finally.
"Yeah. Three years now."
"She looks scared."
"Like I said." He shrugs. "Women get emotional. It's nothing."
It's not nothing.
We both know it's not nothing.
But I don't have proof.
I don't have anything except what I saw, and what I saw could be explained away.
Could be dismissed.
Could be buried under excuses and justifications and "it's not what it looked like."
That's how it always works. That's how men like Cain get away with what they do.
"Keep your hands off her throat," I say quietly. "That's not a request."
His eyes flash—anger, resentment, challenge.
For a second, I think he's going to push back.
Going to tell me to mind my own business.
Going to remind me that what he does with his woman is his affair.
He doesn't.
Because underneath the charm and the swagger, Cain's a coward.
And cowards don't challenge men they know can destroy them.
