Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  His sweet baby brother. His beautiful sister. He couldnae stomach what could have happened before the fire if someone truly wanted to harm them. The briefest hint of a scream cut through his mind, and his entire body jerked. Someone intentionally hurt his family. Stole their lives.

  Sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers closed into fists. “Who?”

  “The car was stolen. The driver’s a nobody—”

  “Who?” A hot uprush of hate poured out of him. “Someone did this!”

  Rhys’s face pinched. “I asked around. He works for a man named Oscar Riordan.”

  The name nipped his violent agitation, some form of recognition poking deep. “Who is tha’?”

  “Most know him as Rory.”

  He gave Rhys a baffled stare. “The kingpin?”

  Rhys looked over his shoulder and quietly shut the door. Pulling a chair closer to the bed, he lowered his voice and said, “He was at the fight tha’ night. I think he’s the one who wanted ye to throw the match.”

  The blade of guilt pressed deeper. He dropped his back to the bed and stared at the overhead light.

  “My family’s dead because I refused te throw a fight?”

  Rhys’s hand hesitantly brushed his arm and settled, squeezing tight. “There’s more.”

  “More?” He dinnae know how much more he could take.

  “When I got the name, I started asking around. This Rory fella’s a nasty prick, a real dangerous cunt. Drugs, black market crime, women, gambling, sex trade, he’s got his filthy fingers in everything. He’s got an underground army workin’ for him, men like the one who showed at yer place that night. Not someone ye wanna be messin’ with. I’m only tellin’ ye because ye said yer too weak te retaliate.”

  “I’ll heal.”

  Rhys met his stare. “Sometimes it’s best te know when te walk away, Callan. This isnae someone you could take to the ring. You’re in no position te fight anyway. This man’s powerful. He’ll destroy you—”

  “I’ve got nothing te fucking lose. He already robbed me of everything.”

  No matter what he’d done, he dinnae deserve to see his family killed. And for what? Refusing to throw a fight?

  “This doesnae make sense. They were innocent. If he wanted me, he should have come after me. I was there! He could have—”

  “If we hadnae left so fast, he would have found us. According to others, he was looking for you. Only when he heard ye left, did he send someone to yer house.” Rhys’s face tensed. “Do ye remember the old man who offered ye money just before the fight?”

  His vision glazed with savage rage, the need to kill chewing at his insides, breathing fire into his veins. “Vaguely.”

  “He told Rory ye took the payout.”

  The blood rushed from his brain. If he hadnae already been reclined, he would have plummeted to his arse. “What?”

  Rhys nodded quickly. “Told him it was a done deal, which led te a lot of money shifting in favor of The Mountain. And if ye think about it, it really did look like it was over for a moment there. But then—”

  “I won.” His face numbed.

  “You won.”

  He couldnae breathe. Couldnae think. Couldnae swallow. “I need ... water.”

  Rhys filled a cup and handed it to him. Callan chugged it down and crushed the plastic in his fist.

  “I want the name of every single person involved. The people at the house, the old guy from the fight, anyone who works for this Rory bastard. I want every fucking name of every fucking prick whoever paid that son of a bitch a compliment. I want his mother’s name, his children’s. I want the fucking name of his dog. And I want the address te his fucking home because that’s where I’m going te murder everyone he’s ever loved.”

  “Callan, you can barely walk—”

  He gripped his friend by the front of his shirt, the tight skin on his knuckles pulling painfully as his fist closed over the material. “And I want you te bring me your fucking gun.”

  Rhys plunged back into the chair. “Ye cannae go after this guy, Callan! He’s not a street fighter. He’s more powerful than anything we understand. He’s got real mafia ties, crooked politicians te wash his balls, dealers te dress his estates in gold. This is bigger than the ten thousand pounds that old prick stole. Ye saw how many people were there tha’ night. High rollers. Major money was lost, and he thinks ye stole from him. Be grateful he hasnae come to find you—”

  “Enough!” Callan’s eyes lit with vengeance. “No more excuses.”

  “This isnae your game, Callan. You cannae beat a man like tha’.”

  “I dinnae intend to beat him. I plan te murder him. And I’ll be doin’ it with or without yer help, Rhys.”

  His brow twisted with concern. “How’re ye gonna go after a man like tha’ when ye can hardly lift yer own dick te take a piss?”

  Frustration choked him as the truth of his friend’s word burrowed into the cracks of his hollowed shell of a heart. Why was death so easy and life so hard?

  Blinking up at the ceiling of the infirmary, the goddamn ceiling he’d been staring at for almost half a year, he accepted he couldnae leave this world until he avenged his brother and sister.

  “Get me what I asked. I’ll get better. Stronger. And when I do, I intend to slaughter every single person who played a part in their deaths.” Then it’ll be my turn to die.

  Chapter Six

  Glasgow—Scotland

  Seven Months Later

  Sweat poured into his eyes leaving a puddle on the floor beneath his face. Every press of his nose to the ground drew a grunt of exertion, a taste of hard-earned satisfaction.

  His muscles screamed for relief, but Callan mercilessly pushed himself harder. The relentless beast in his gut demanded every pound of flesh and needed him strong to act as a vehicle for vengeance.

  Every day he grew more savage than the last, more bloodthirsty. Rory. The name played like a taunt in his mind, a target for his rage and pain, a final hope in this unending hell called life.

  Rory was going to look into his eyes and feel true pain. Callan would make him hurt until he begged for mercy. He would make him pay. They would all pay.

  He kept his growing rage bottled inside of him, boiling so hot it singed every thought. His injuries were inconsequential when it came to his need to destroy those who murdered his family, burned down his only home, annihilated every tangible memory, leaving nothing but pain and ash.

  The memory of Gavin’s innocence steered him. The robbed potential they stole from Innis galvanized him. The hollow ache in his chest starved him. And the bloodthirsty hunger inside of him focused him.

  The pain was real. The pain was unflinching. The pain was dependable. The pain drove him.

  When he was through with Oscar Riordan, and the geezers who worked for him, the world would know what he’d done. Callan MacGregor would have the last word.

  An eye for a fucking eye. He’d take his eyes, his balls, his teeth, his fucking limbs. He’d eat his fucking heart. Mothers would cry just from hearing rumors of what he’d done.

  Soon. It would all happen very soon.

  “Callan!” The music cut off as Rhys stood in the doorway, looking none too pleased with being woken up. “It’s five o’clock in the fuckin’ mornin’.”

  “I was up.” He hardly slept anymore. And when he was awake, he was focused on his goal.

  He switched arms, balancing on the scar tissue covering his knuckles, fist planted in the wood floor, as he did another set of one-armed push-ups.

  “So ye wake the rest of Scotland? Bleedin’ Christ, I have neighbors, Callan.”

  Panting through his teeth, he counted down then rolled to his back. He grabbed a medicine ball and hissed out fast breaths as he twisted from side to side in a circuit of Russian sit-ups.

  “Let them complain.” One look at him and they’d shut up quick.

  “Can ye see past yer anger for one minute and remember what it is te not be such a fucking cunt? Ye used
te be a decent man. At least save yer anger for those who deserve it.”

  Cutting a scathing glare to his friend, he dared him to go on. “Seems te me, I’m the only one who fucking cares.”

  Rhys’s chest lifted. If he challenged him, he’d lose. “Fuck you, Callan. This isnae you. If they were here, they’d hate the bastard you’ve become.”

  He counted out another set of reps. “This is who I am now.”

  “I liked the old you.”

  He rolled to his feet, picked up the sledgehammer and swung, whaling down on the massive tire. His skin protested, but his muscles tingled for more.

  “Old me’s dead, Rhys. Sorry, you missed the wake.”

  “Innis and Gavin would have wanted you te move on. They’d have wanted you te find peace.”

  He spun, tossing the hammer and gripping Rhys by the throat, backing him into the wall. “Don’t fucking assume to know them better than me! Do not fucking dare! They’re dead, Rhys. Fucking dead!”

  Rhys caught his wrist, his anger spitting into Callan’s face. “Ye know I’m right! She’d hate seeing ye like this!”

  He jerked his hand away, letting Rhys fall to the floor, gasping. Hoisting up the sledgehammer, he pointed it at him. “Dinnae come up here tellin’ me what they’d fuckin’ want when they cannae want for anything anymore. This is about what I want. Me. What I fucking need. I want to hear that bloody cock scream in pain, beg for mercy that will never come. And when he breathes his last fucking breath, I’m going to whisper my name in his ear so he can tell the devil himself Callan MacGregor sent him.”

  All color washed from Rhys' face. “Yer fuckin’ mad. I think you need to speak to someone, Callan—a priest maybe.”

  “I dinnae need a fuckin’ priest. I’ve made a deal with God.” He tossed the sledgehammer on the ground and grabbed an armful of thick rope, hauling to the far wall.

  “God or Satan? I honestly think you believe you’re going to kill people.”

  He laughed without humor. “Not just kill. Slaughter.”

  Rhys watched him like one might watch an absolute lunatic. “I’m worried about ye, Callan. This isnae justice. You’ll find no peace—”

  He scoffed. “Justice cannae touch monsters like Oscar Riordan. Only greater monsters can.”

  “And that’s what yer becomin’, a bloodthirsty monster.”

  No choice. Rory had authority at every level from the wealthy to the impoverished. He had syndicates in Glasgow, Edinburgh, and even some tucked away in the Highlands.

  Wealth was his poison of choice, and for the right price, he’d commit any manner of sin. There were no limits to his ruthlessness. Women werenae safe, children werenae safe, no one was. He needed to be put down, and only a fearless maniac could do it.

  Callan intended to dismantle his entire empire, one piece of scum at a time. He had nothing left to lose. Death would be a welcome rest, but so long as he was still breathing, he planned on collecting souls.

  He might be morally bankrupt by the time he finished, but he wouldnae stop until he stole every life Oscar Fucking Riordan loved—including that of his own.

  The fool should have come after Callan and killed him as well. But he’d left him in a world of misery where his only purpose seemed to be assuring evil men reaped every bit of what they sewed.

  Hooking the ropes to the heavy grommets in the wall, he turned. The doorway was empty. Good. He dinnae need anyone telling him how to fucking feel.

  Maybe Innis and Gavin wouldnae approve. More likely Innis would have something to say about his new philosophies. But what he’d said was one hundred percent true. They werenae here. What bloody difference did it make guessin’ if his intentions were right or wrong when they’d never know for sure?

  Never know.

  Never.

  He would never know what they were thinking or hear their voices again. He was already starting to forget little things, like the shape of Gavin’s ears and the sound of Innis’s laugh.

  He had no photographs, no keepsakes of any sort aside from the burnt relics Rhys had saved. Ashes to ashes.

  The only memory of their existence now lived in his broken mind. So when anybody, including Rhys, assumed to know them better than him, he grew very territorial, as if they might steal away the last few memories he had left of his precious family.

  Aye, there was definitely a touch of madness wreaking havoc in his head. But he preferred lunacy to sadness, found purpose in its relentless nature.

  And soon it would end. Soon the fucking monsters of this world would reap the justice they deserved. He’d bathe in their blood, baptized, reborn, forgiven. Or not.

  This wasnae about saving his soul. It was about taking theirs.

  Chapter Seven

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Four and a half years later—Present Day

  Emery Tanner averted her gaze as Wesley, professional athlete, and guest at the hotel, eased his limber form against the edge of her reception desk, his exposed arms tan and roped with sinew from vigorous training.

  “That’s a great name. Emery.” He spoke the three syllables as if they tasted like his favorite food. “Sexy.”

  Born with an abysmal inability to take a compliment, exacerbated by overly critical parents, she flushed. The marbled countertop acted as a shield, hiding her shifting legs, as her toes bunched in the tips of her navy blue work pumps. “Thanks.”

  Managing the reception desk at the Imperial Regal Hotel and Spa of Saratoga Springs meant catering to a variety of privileged, upper-class guests who retreated to the charming country of upstate New York for weekend getaways. Saratoga Springs was a stunning town to visit but a boring place to live.

  “You got a boyfriend? I bet you have at least five guys dying to go out with you at any given time.”

  Yeah right. Men weren’t usually so direct with her—at least not the man she wished would notice her, the only man she’d consider dating. “No, I’m single.”

  She wasn’t unattractive. Just ... average. Mousey blond hair that, without highlights, was completely dull and unremarkable. Average weight and height. No overly striking features that made her stand out in a crowd in a good way or a bad way.

  She was just an ordinary girl in her early twenties. She could get a boyfriend but had her heart set on a specific man. So she remained single by choice.

  “Do you ever stay here?”

  His strong jaw and straight nose gave him a Kennedy appeal. Or perhaps that was the magic of his confidence working overtime. Entitlement wafted from him as much as the stale scent of top-shelf bourbon.

  She shook her head. “I live about a mile away. Not a far commute.” Ugh, her banter sounded so lame.

  His sandy blonde hair wanted to curl at the ends, and a dimple flirted with his smile when he turned on the charm. He fit the perfect definition of masculine beauty for New England WASPs—lean, flawless, safe ... not at all edgy.

  His gaze skipped from the cuff of her blazer to the lapel, landing on her breasts, and her chest tightened.

  Sliding the checkout forms in front of her, she used the stack of printouts like a shield, a rush of inadequacy making her fidget. She should be delivering the forms instead of fondling them and practicing her flirting skills on a random guy who got lost on his way back to the bar from the men’s room.

  But chatting with guests and acting hospitable was also part of the job. “Where are you from?”

  “I live in...” He might have said Chicago. Or maybe Georgia.

  Movement in the bar across the lobby caught her attention, and her gaze drifted past his shoulder. Her breath hitched as her heart tumbled in a delicate flip when her stare fell longingly on the most beautiful man alive.

  Callan.

  Her soul sighed under the unmovable weight of her crush. Wesley’s voice faded to a distant drone as her senses bathed in all things Callan MacGregor.

  He was her heart’s compass, her obsession, her reasoning for so much, including thi
s job and the late hours she kept.

  So gentle and so kind, but also terrifying for reasons she couldn’t understand, reasons that warned she should fear him but fed her addiction all the same. He was a stunning paradox, a mysterious tapestry of secrets she longed to unravel. Watching him, her insides melted. She ached to examine every stitched inch of his soul.

  Wesley continued to prattle on about his hometown, selling it like a travel brochure, but with the success of a failing time-share.

  “Is it nice there?” she heard her distracted voice wonder while her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

  Various athletes lingered at the bar. The most rambunctious groups were oversaturated men, cut loose by their coaches and managers for the last night of the conference.

  “Definitely. And the view of the lake is choice.”

  She resisted the urge to crinkle her nose at his tragic vocabulary. Not everyone could have a lexicon of language and a voice that teased every nerve in her body like Callan had.

  She often fantasized about Callan’s deep timbre, imagining the feel of his accented words wrapped in that thick Scottish burr breathing over her skin. The greedy way each letter clung desperately to the next, teeming with lush, rolling elocutions as the broad brogue of his tongue tormented her with sensual secrets only the two of them would ever share.

  But it wasn’t just his mouth tormenting her. Callan also spoke with his eyes, and when he sometimes looked at her like she was the only woman alive, she existed purely for him.

  Her heart fluttered at the mere thought of his attention, her insides pulling with languid heat. His soft-spoken gentleness contradicted his rough edges, yet she ached to touch him.

  Not that he’d ever come close enough to whisper sweet nothings, but, in her fantasies, he gave her everything—every secret, every sigh, and every syllable.

  “Do you know what I mean?” Wesley asked, a look of expectation telling her he’d wait for her answer.

  Crap. What did he just say?

  She blinked. “Um, yeah,” she agreed, hoping her response worked.

  “It’s a total buzzkill, but that’s part of the job...”