Page 16 of If Cain Were Able

Be here tomorrow, or I’ll show up on your doorstep again.

I don’t expect him to answer, but my phone vibrates less than a minute later.

Patrick

I’m on the way to my hotel already. Don’t be fifteen minutes late this time. My flight is at 4.

My fingers start typing before I grant them permission to do so.

Me:

There’s no need to waste money on a hotel when I have four bedrooms. I’m about to leave the office. I’ll text you the address.

Patrick

I’m not staying with you.

I’m not interested in arguing or wasting time, so I call Patrick instead of sending another text.

As soon as the call connects, I begin speaking, not offering him a chance to talk first. There’s one tactic that will guarantee my victory, and I’m willing to use it in order to get what I want.

“I’ve had a long day in the OR, and I’m tired. Knowing you’re in my city, but not in my house, will piss me off, and I won’t get a good night’s sleep.”

Instead of caving to my admission of vulnerability, Patrick throws a barb at me.

“Your mood swings and your sleep schedule aren’t my problem anymore, Cain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead as my frayed nerve endings come alive.

Patrick should know that the harder he pushes me away, the harder I’m going to fight back. I love the chase as much as I love what comes after I catch my prey.

And the fact remains that Patrick is my favorite prey.

Chapter 10

Patrick

I’ll never admit it to his face, but I didn’t sleep at all last night. Every time I would get close to drifting off, the rasp of Cain’s voice and tired vocal cords would call me back to consciousness.

And then I’d think about being in his presence again.

And that, of course, would spiral into thoughts about the last time we were together.

I know he was more worried about my surgical site for his benefit than mine; God forbid he damage his own handiwork. But that doesn’t stop my wandering mind from replaying the gentleness he showed me that night. His words may have been just as harsh as they’ve always been, but his touch was different.

Or maybe I’m reading into things too much.

Cain isn’t capable of emotions beyond pride, greed, and lust. He’s a self-serving creature; he always has been. It’s what draws people to him: the thought that maybe they can be the one to make him change, call forth his affection, and help him find his humanity.

But Cain has none.

I pull on my button-down, strategically thinking this would be the best option. I know he’ll ask to see the incision. I know he’ll poke and prod. But if I wear a button-down, at least I can keep the shirt on, covering my arms and back, leaving me less exposed than taking a T-shirt off entirely.

After making my coffee in the small hotel room, I pour it into the disposable cup, grab my bag, and leave the room. My stomach is in knots, and I doubt I’ll drink the hot liquid, but it gives me something to focus on.

The entire drive to Cain’s office, I can’t decide if I’m nervous because we’ll be face-to-face one more time, or because I know this will be the last time.

I would’ve thought I’d be better at walking away from him by now, but the finality that comes with this appointment has settled into my bones, filling me with dread, and that makes me angry.