Page 53 of Ravaged By a Devil

Cain snaps up from the armchair. The suffocating weight of his presence fills the room as he steps directly into my space.

"Is that what you think that was?" he growls softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with dangerous intensity. "You think I took you out into those woods to work off a fucking tab? I never considered that payment, Alexis. Don't ever insult me like that again."

My face flushes, but I force myself to hold his furious glare, desperately trying to keep the upper hand. "It was just fun, Cain. Okay? But it doesn't change the fact that I owe you."

The moment the words leave my lips, the air in the room turns razor-sharp. Cain's jaw clenches so tight a muscle ticks violently in his cheek, his dark eyes flashing with absolute, lethal irritation at my attempt to dismiss what happened between us.

He takes a long, slow breath, his eyes closing for a single second. When he blinks them open, the fury has completely vanished, replaced by that same calm, lazy smirk. It’s terrifying. To watch a man go from rage to absolute, stone-cold composure in the span of a heartbeat is easily the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen him do.

He has complete control over himself.

"Fine," Cain rumbles, leaning back slightly and looking down at me with amused contempt. "If you're so fucking determined to repay your debts, doll... I'll take dinner instead." He tilts his head, his smirk widening. "And you're paying."

I shift uncomfortably on my feet, smoothing down my jacket as I process the sudden shift. "Okay. Deal. I know a place nearby⁠—"

Cain rolls his eyes. "No. It's my treat, so I pick the place. Come on, I'm driving."

Twenty minutes later, he pulls up to the small, brightly lit diner Cain took me to the morning after he cornered me in front of the police station.

It’s such a normal, everyday establishment that Cain immediately sticks out like a sore thumb. Dressed in his sharply tailored, expensive coat with that dangerous aura radiating off him in waves, he looks like a dark king who lost his way and wandered into a local greasy space.

I can't help the soft laugh that escapes my lips as we slide into a red vinyl booth opposite each other. I loved this place the first time he brought me here, and I love it now. It’s entirely my vibe—unpretentious, cozy, and warm.

Around us, the low hum of diner chatter, clinking silverware, and soft laughter fills the air. I notice a few subtle stares from nearby tables, people whispering under their breath as they steal glances at him.

I'm not sure if it's because they recognize him and the dangerous shadow his family casts over the city, or simply because he’s absurdly, impossibly handsome.

Honestly, it's probably both.

As Cain raises a broad hand to signal a waitress, I lean across the laminated table, resting my chin in my hands with a sly smile.

"You know," I tease, keeping my voice low, "for a ruthless, terrifying monster who chases women through the woods, you're surprisingly normal outside the bedroom."

Cain slowly lowers his hand, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a sudden intensity. He leans forward across the table, casting a shadow over me as a wicked, promise-laden grin touches his mouth.

"Don't get comfortable, Alexis," he growls softly, his voice thick with a warning that makes my stomach flip. "I can turn this table upside down and remind you exactly what kind of monster I am right here in front of everyone."

A deep, searing flush explodes across my cheeks, burning all the way down my neck as I instantly bite my lip and avert my eyes, my blood singing at the dark threat.

Aside from that little hiccup, dinner goes surprisingly well.

Sophia, the owner of the diner, comes over to our table to personally greet Cain just like she did the first time he brought me here. She fusses over us, making sure the food is perfect, and treats Cain less like a feared kingpin and more like a favored regular.

When the bill comes, Cain slips a stack of folded bills under his coffee cup—another obscenely generous tip.

Watching him leave it, I can’t help but sigh inwardly. I wish we had more customers like Cain at The Blackwood. It turns out the wealthy socialites and high rollers who frequent the club are usually the stingiest tippers in the city.

"Come on," Cain rumbles, sliding out of the booth and offering me a hand. "I'm dropping you home."

I don't bother arguing.

The ride back to my place is wrapped in an easy, comfortable silence. Soft jazz filters low through the car's speakers, cutting through the dark city streets.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the passing streetlights flicker across Cain's sharp jawline. His broad hands rest lightly on the leather steering wheel, his long fingers drumming a steady, lazy rhythm against the leather in time with the beat.

For the first time in a long while, the constant knot of tension in my chest loosens, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth radiating from the man sitting right beside me.

When he pulls up to my porch and walks me up to my door, I fully expect him to push his way inside, corner me against the wall, and take me right there. I’m already bracing for it—aching for it, really.