"Hey, baby," I say, keeping my voice soft. "Dinner's almost ready."
He doesn't respond.
He shuts the door behind him, tossing his keys onto the counter with a clatter that makes me flinch.
I hate that I flinch.
I hate that three years of walking on eggshells have turned me into a woman who jumps at the sound of keys.
Cain grabs a beer from the fridge, cracks it open, takes a long pull.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to read the tension in his shoulders.
Trying to predict which version of him I'm dealing with tonight.
"How was your day?" I try again.
"Shit." He drops into a chair at the kitchen table, sprawling back, legs spread wide. "Fuckin’ Leviathan called church over some bullshit. Wasted two hours listening to Zenon run his mouth."
Leviathan. The president of the club.
I've seen him at gatherings—tall, built like a wall, with cold blue eyes that seem to see everything.
He makes me nervous in a different way than Cain does.
Cain is a storm I can see coming. Leviathan is something quieter. Something I can't read.
"I'm sorry," I say automatically.
I'm always sorry. Sorry for things I didn't do, sorry for things I can't control, sorry for existing in a way that inconveniences him.
"You should be." His eyes flick to me. "What's for dinner?"
"Chicken. Your favorite?—"
"I can see it's chicken, Ripley. I'm not fuckin’ blind."
I close my mouth and turn back to the stove and flip the meat with trembling hands.
The oil pops, spattering against my wrist, and I bite my cheek to keep from making a sound.
The silence stretches.
I know better than to fill it.
When Cain is like this, anything I say will be used against me.
So I focus on the chicken. This, at least, I can control.
"Did you leave the apartment today?"
The question is casual, but it's not casual.
"Just to get groceries," I say carefully. "We were out of milk."
"Did you talk to anyone?"
"Just the cashier."
