Page 119 of Safe Word

Cain didn’t flinch. Not once. He stayed calm, as if the cool steel didn’t even faze him.

Somehow, he reminded me of Ghost in this moment, and I couldn’t believe I was making that comparison. And fuck if that didn’t get my juices running even in this state of utter panic.

After a moment, he shifted backwards, stood, and left the room without another word.

I slammed the phone down onto my bed, my chest heaving as the full weight of what I had done hit me.

My fingers stiffened around the device, my mind racing.

Cain hadn’t yelled, shown anger or anything like that, but there was no way he wasn’t furious. No way this wasn’t going to ruin everything.

I couldn’t lose this job. Not after just a week.

Snatching the phone from the sheets, I navigated to Cain’s number, my thumb hovering over the call button. My hands shook, my breath came in short, shallow bursts. I didn’t even know where to start.

But I had to try.

Taking a calming breath, I pressed call.

I held the phone to my ear, each second of silence stretching tighter around my chest. Cain’s number rang once, twice, three times – then went to voicemail.

A cold knot of dread settled in my stomach.

‘Hey… Cain…’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s Paula. I just… I wanted to talk to you. I—’ I faltered, running a hand through my hair as if it would shed the disgrace off me. ‘I’d really like to explain. That is – apologise. Please give me a call back when you get a chance.’

I ended the call, staring at the phone as if it might give me answers to questions I didn’t ask aloud.

No reply after several minutes. Nothing.

I choked down the anxiety, then went through the rest of the footage just to appease my increasingly fraying nerves. And when I found nothing until the moment I woke, I set the phone down and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower would clear my head. Hopefully.

The water poured over me as I washed night from my skin, the warmth soothing muscles that felt all wrong. My mind refused to stop sprinting, replaying the footage over and over. Me holding the gun, Cain leaving.

He probably thinks I’m insane, I thought with a sinking feeling.

After drying off, I threw on a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved tee and an oversized zip-up hoodie, then gulped down water as though I hadn’t tasted it in days. My head still throbbed, so a pre-breakfast ibuprofen was mandatory.

Breakfast.

I stalked over to the fridge. Opening it was more out of habit than hunger.

Eggs. Milk. A near-fossilised sausage that should’ve been binned a month ago.

The absurd normality of it felt unreal.

I should eat something, even though my nerves knotted my gut.

But first – coffee.

As the coffee machine whirled to life, my mind circled back to the same question: why was I drugged? Who the hell did it? It couldn’t have been Travis. He wasn’t the type to drug me and let me go. He would’ve tortured me. Made me remember every single thing.

I shuddered at the memories.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It wasn’t Cain – that much was clear. I remembered him taking the bottle, sniffing it, frowning with concern. His reaction had been genuine, protective even, not the kind of response someone guilty would give.