Loving Mr. Cane (Cane 3)

Cane was pleased to see all of the clothes, shoes, and hair products. He’d told me repeatedly that he wanted to see my side of the closet fill up. Probably because it meant I’d stick around a little longer.

Despite all of the shopping and being so warmly welcomed into the new home, Cane worked a lot of hours and had to travel often. He was trying to stick close to Charlotte, but with Lora and Miss Cane around, I told him it was fine. I wasn’t alone in that huge house, and even though Lora was on the hunt to have her own place, she promised not to move into one until I felt good enough to be on my own again.

But of course, in spite of all of the positivity, there was a downfall—I hadn’t spoken to my parents much since I left home. I called Mom the night after I’d arrived and told her I’d made it safely, but she didn’t have much to say. She was glad I’d made it safely, but told me to be careful.

I had even started a group chat with them the day after that arrival to check in and see how they were doing. Mom responded and said she was fine. Dad didn’t, but I already knew he wasn’t going to. Like I said— grudges.

I tried not to let the heavy stuff weigh me down, like Kelly’s stupid slap on the wrist, and also the fact that my parents were sitting on $50,000 from the case and hadn’t told me about it. I kind of wished Cane hadn’t told me. Somehow it felt better not knowing what was going to happen to her and expecting the worst punishment possible, than to hear about that measly sentence she got and what the outcome was for my parents.

From what Cane had told me, she was already in psych and no longer a threat to us…but she was only going to be in there for a few years. We could have all the restraining orders in the world, but I knew that when Kelly wanted something, she went after it, even if the cost was her freedom.

On the other hand, my injury was much, much better, and time was healing the emotional wounds between Cane and me. But there was one thing I was afraid to follow through with—one thing I knew he was a little bothered about—we hadn’t had sex since I came to Charlotte.

There were moments when he’d come to me, and I’d let him kiss me, slide between my legs. All of my clothes would be off—everything but my panties and bra—but I would stop him before he got there, every single time. When I would stop him, he’d roll over casually and then reel me in to spoon me. He always said it was okay, but it was becoming a consistent thing, and I knew he was getting slightly frustrated. Either way, he did a pretty good job of not revealing those frustrations.

About a month into the transition, everything seemed fine. We were all happy. I made use of the sauna often, as well as the whirlpool bathtub in our bathroom, always sinking into it with a good book. There was a room next door to Cane’s bedroom that Lora and I had turned into a lounge area. Cane said the room was mine to do whatever I wanted with, so I bought a bookshelf, some books, notebooks, and even an elliptical, because with all of the delicious meals Miss Cane made, I was going to need to burn the calories off somehow.

I thought everything was smooth sailing until Cane came home one day in a rage. I was lounging on his bed, watching a movie on Netflix, when he barged into the room and slammed a paper down on the dresser. I sat up rapidly, frowning in his direction.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” he growled through his teeth as he turned for the closet.

I hopped off the bed. “What? Kill who?”

“That bitch Kelly.” He yanked at the buttons on his shirt. “She sent me a fucking note today. Straight to my office.”

“A note?” I walked up to him, shoving his hands away and helping him unbutton the shirt, because he definitely wasn’t getting the job done. “What did it say?”

He huffed, and when I was finished unbuttoning the shirt, he snatched it off and tossed it into the hamper. He went back out of the closet, grabbing the folded paper that appeared to have been crumpled before, and offering it to me.

I took it from him, giving him a wary glance before focusing on the folded note. There weren’t many words. There was literally only one sentence.

“I hope you don’t think this is over,” I read out loud. I grimaced at her cursive script before looking up at him. “What is this even supposed to mean?”