Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  “Em’ry? You all right, love?”

  She dashed away her tears, not sure why she was crying, only then realizing she was awake and staring blankly in a sort of numb daydream of silence. Her fingers felt like they were on someone else’s hands. She frowned at her broken nail. Her mind flashed to the hotel bathroom, the sound of wet Formica scraping under her clawing fingers, the feel of her nails bending back.

  Callan cursed and jolted into action, thrusting a bedpan under her as she vomited. “We need a nurse!”

  A flurry of people surrounded her, mopping her up with wet wipes and sweeping back her crusty hair. She cried, apologizing for making such a mess of herself after they’d cleaned her up once already. Then she puked again.

  “It’s the meds,” she heard a woman say.

  “She needs water and a new gown,” Callan ordered.

  Her sobs ricocheted off the shallow bowl, its swirling contents producing a sour stench. “I’m sorry,” she choked.

  “Stop apologizing. It’s not yer fault, love.”

  She shut her eyes. A firm, warm hand brushed down her back with long soothing strokes. The bowl disappeared and a cloth pressed to her lips. She winced as it brushed over a cut.

  “Sorry.” A plastic cup appeared. “Take a sip. Not too much.”

  Her lips closed around a straw, and she swallowed down the cool water. She moaned. “This sucks.”

  She didn’t know what else to say. The drugs numbed the pain, but she couldn’t even get high successfully. She suspected, once the drowsy effects evacuated her system, all the hurt would return—descending like a freight train.

  She admitted defeat before it happened and folded onto her side.

  Callan excused himself, and a nurse helped her change.

  From then on she blinked in superficial awareness. Her mind became a placid lake with DO NOT DISTURB signs planted around the perimeter. The slightest sound a cannonball, wrecking her momentary peace.

  They collected her clothing as evidence, treated the last of her injuries, and reviewed her x-rays. A shaft fracture in her pinky and articular fractures in her other three fingers. Plus, a number of breaks in the small bones of her hand.

  It meant nothing. It was all nothing. Letting it be more than nothing meant it was something.

  More pills were offered as a precaution against pregnancy and other possible aftermaths. She swallowed them without question.

  The orthopedic surgeon wrapped her hand in plaster, offering advice about care. She shut her eyes and nodded, not hearing a single word.

  When everything finally quieted, it seemed the stillest silence in the universe. That was when the truth came out.

  “I should have paid better attention.”

  Callan shifted against the wall. If anyone should witness the blame, it might as well be him. Like poison, she needed to get it out.

  “I thought I heard something when I was upstairs. And earlier... I sensed something off in him. I should have trusted my gut.”

  “Evil people masquerade as regular people, Em’ry. Ye couldnae have known what he was until it was too late.”

  But part of her did know. Her instincts told her to scream, but she didn’t listen. “I was afraid of making a fool of myself.”

  She’d entertained the entire what if scenario in her head, all while drying her hands under a predator’s watch. If she’d screamed and Marco heard her, he’d have come running. But it could have turned out to be nothing, and she’d have been humiliated and offended a guest of the hotel.

  She frowned. But he’d been in the women’s bathroom.

  Did she let this happen? So what if she yelled for nothing because something inside of her didn’t feel safe? That should be enough of a reason to call for help, but she’d hesitated. Why?

  She thought of all the stories on the news. Were they women who waited too long, too? How long had she actually hesitated? How long had he been in that bathroom before hurting her? One minute? Two? Did it matter?

  “I let this happen.”

  His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening to a scowl. She’d never seen him look at her like that and instinctively drew back, wincing as her injuries protested.

  “Ye listen to me, Em’ry,” he said, voice low and threatening. “Nothin’ about what happened tonight was yer fault. You willnae put the blame on yourself. Dae ye hear me?” His accent thickened and his eyes flashed with haunting menace.

  She nodded nervously. “I’m sor—”

  “And no more apologies.”

  Unsure how to respond, she jerked her head in a tight nod. He paced to the opposite end of the room, dragging an unsteady hand through his dark hair. Seeing how upset he was, and not understanding why, filled her with the urge to apologize again, but she’d just agreed not to say sorry anymore.

  He turned, his face once again a mask of composure. “I dinnae mean to yell at ye. You’ve been through enough.”

  “It’s okay.” It was strangely welcome. Like his fraying nerves made hers more normal.

  Silence stole through the room. Something raw and haunting seemed to vibrate within him. She stared at his hands, wishing she could ask how they got that way.

  There was so much she didn’t know about him, so many signs that he might be a dangerous man, yet he seemed the only person she felt safe around at the moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Riordan Private Estate

  Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland

  Four Years Prior

  The childlike laughter that chirped from Rory as he steepled his fingers close to his face with barely contained excitement was perhaps the second most disturbing thing Callan had ever seen or heard in his life. The first was the condition of his sister—and her silence.

  The breath rushed out of him. The tension in his body sapped away, leaving his bones hollow and his heart untrustingly full. He was almost grateful for the bindings that tied him to the chair, otherwise shock would have surely knocked him down.

  Innis.

  Her name washed through him like a sacrament. Her clothing was pure and clean, confusingly vintage. Delicate fringes of white cascaded to the floor from an elegant, mid-century dressing gown. But she was alive. An angel from heaven, come to rescue him.

  Her hair shaded her face. He willed her to turn and fully look at him. She showed absolutely no reaction to his or Rhys’s presence.

  He tried in vain to say her name, but the tape distorted the word. His grasp on reality tumbled as he questioned the authenticity of her presence. It might be a trick.

  He forgot the day, the year, when he ate last, where he slept. There was no beginning and no end, only scrambled fractions of truth he dinnae trust.

  Rhys floundered against the wall, his muffled grunts wailing against the tape. Callan’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  Then his heart broke all over again. Where was Gavin?

  Hurt bloomed anew. A wisp of hope and he’d invested in a tortuous lie. A promise broken before spoken. He suffered his brother’s death all over again, his eyes blinking hard to clear his vision, his sister’s willowy figure wavering before him.

  It was the cruelest trick, giving her back to him but putting her here. She dinnae belong near this filth, these people. How long had she been here?

  More than a year. His stomach dropped. What sort of hell had she endured?

  Eyes pleading, he looked at the man holding him. Pride disappeared, his need for revenge withered to a silent plea. A truce. He needed to hug her, speak her name.

  “Is it not brilliant?” Rory purred. “All this time, ye assumed she was dead. And she was right here—alive. Had I known you were searching for her, I would have sent a message, but I’m afraid you, like all vigilantes, are not in the book.” He clapped, delighted. “What a wonderful turn of events!”

  She dinnae look at him. Would not. Something wasnae adding up.

  While her flesh appeared rosy and her clothes and hair appeared clean—her figure bent in too delicat
e a way. Her jaw, where it peeked past the curtain of her dark hair, seemed too gaunt, too slender for even Innis.

  This wasnae his sister. It was a look alike. Had to be.

  “Come, my little trinket.” Rory held out a hand, and Innis shuffled closer, her posture subdued but guarded, the way a loyal dog obeys but cowers before its cruel master. She showed no hesitation to lay her hand in Rory’s.

  He pulled her close so that her back filled Callan’s view, Rhys’s muffled moans now resembling wounded cries as his brow pinched as he looked at Innis.

  Rory watched Callan as he whispered into her ear, loud enough for him to hear. His fingers gently clasped the delicate tip of her chin.

  “Head up, Trinket. There you are.” He giggled and licked his lips, salivating in anticipation for whatever came next. “Now, look at your brother.”

  Rhys’s muffled screams grew louder and more frantic. Rory’s hands closed over her shoulders and slowly turned her to face Callan.

  Rhys cried, miserable and stuck to the wall. One of the guards thumped him in the stomach, momentarily silencing his wails to guttural whimpers.

  “Look what I’ve brought you, Trinket.” With a delicate hand, Rory lifted her face and tucked the ebony waves behind her shoulders, and the blood rushed from Callan’s veins.

  His sister’s face turned, but she dinnae look at him. One eye lazed, angled toward the floor, hidden by her fringed lashes. The other socket sank into her beautiful face, empty.

  Callan’s roar filled the silence as he bucked against the chair, a force of rage barreling through him like a stampede. The tape over his mouth did nothing to filter his wrath. The blade by his eye gouged, possibly piercing the tender skin.

  What had Rory done to her? Why? He’d massacre him! Make him suffer a thousand deaths without coming close to letting him die.

  The guards wrenched his head back, and he seethed. The tension in his shoulders bunched, the chains cutting off his oxygen as the ropes ate into his flesh, strangling his circulation.

  He couldnae uncoil the need to break free and destroy. The putrid sight of Rory’s hands on his sister’s narrow frame did things to him he couldnae bear.

  He growled, and Rory smiled. “Now, I have your attention.”

  His cheeks swelled over the constricting tape covering his mouth, saliva and sweat coated his lips beneath the adhesive. His eyes bulged with vehemence, silent threats of retribution too dark for his enemy to imagine.

  The way the bastard handled her, deferentially rather than aggressively, spoke of a fondness Callan couldnae tolerate. Possessive rage ripped through him, igniting a burning fury deeper than any hate.

  She still wouldnae look at him. Could she see him? Did she retain the sight in her other eye? Did she not recognize him? There was no measure of the damage already done to her.

  His brow pinched as he wheezed hard. He turned his pleading gaze on Rory, silently begging him to remove the gag and let him speak to her.

  “Did ye want to say something?” Rory asked in an indulgent tone. He nodded to the guard. “Go ahead then.”

  A guard ripped off the tape. Callan sucked in a breath and panted. His lips trembled, wet with sweat.

  “Innis,” he rasped, voice ravaged by emotion. “Innis, love... Look at me.”

  Though she held herself stiff and straight, her narrow shoulders trembled fiercely at the sound of his voice. Rhys’s heavy breathing overpowered the silence.

  “Innis, love, say something,” Callan begged. “Do ye not know your own brother?”

  Rory still held her hand, her dainty fingers resting in his open palm. The monster’s mouth twisted, gliding into a smile, slick lips pulling back over all those underdeveloped, sharp teeth.

  “I’m afraid you’ve upset her. You may go, now, Trinket.”

  “No! Innis!”

  Rory watched him closely as he pressed a kiss to her cheek and nudged her toward the door.

  “Innis!”

  Rhys screamed and earned another silencing blow from the guards. Callan struggled to breathe under the weight of the chains, revolting as their weight restricted him from turning and watching her leave. Stark separation from what he’d already lost choked him.

  When the door rammed shut, Callan felt his heart close to the world. Defeated, he wanted to wave his white flag and give in. Just stop fighting and go back to how things used to be. But there was no backward. Only forward.

  “Now,” Rory said, brushing his palms together as if dusting away crumbs. “Shall we discuss your new position?”

  Something dark and feral trembled under his flesh. His voice tore through the room, a raw plea drenched in despair. “What did ye do to her?”

  “Trinket’s fine.”

  “Her name is Innis!” he snapped with ferocious rage.

  Rory tsked and shook his head. “She’s no longer your Innis. She’s my trinket. You’ll have to respect that.”

  He flexed every muscle, his body fighting to break the bonds until the rope burned his skin and the chains dug into his bones. Out of breath, he released his weight with a frustrated roar and sagged into the chair.

  His chest heaved with the need to sob. He was weak. Useless. The weapons that had been trained on him earlier no longer posed an imminent threat, but the cocksucker had him by the hairs of his bollocks.

  “Here’s how this is going to work.” Rory paced casually as if dictating a letter. “You work for me, as of tonight. Your life will be a revolving door of taxation. Any syndicates in Scotland will pay a fee. I claim a cut in all trafficking—drugs, sex, money—I’m entitled to all of it. Anyone refusing to pay, answers to you. You will report directly to me. And let me warn you now, ye beautiful beast of a man, I’ll know the second you think to betray me. And while you might not care about your own life, I know you care about hers. There are worse things I can do than kill her. She understands that. Do you?”

  Impotent rage stormed inside of him, churning his stomach into acid and burning away the last of his humanity. Innis was alive, but now death seemed a touch more merciful. How had it come to this?

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  There would be blood on his hands, the blood of men he dinnae know, men he had no issue with. By the time Rory was through with him, his sins would be too many for the Heavenly Father to forgive. This place would be his end.

  His focus shifted. He needed to get Innis out of here. Once she was safely somewhere that Rory couldnae get to her, he’d carve out the man’s heart and make him eat it.

  His life whittled down to a debt he dinnae owe, but one that would ruin him to pay—until his sister was safely away from this place.

  But in the end, he would collect. He’d take everything from those who stole from them. But first, he needed to know if he should expect any more surprises.

  “Where is Gavin?”

  He held his breath, afraid to hope, afraid to uncover a worse fate.

  Just ... afraid.

  “The boy? Too young for my taste. Trinket, on the other hand, her beauty appeals to me. Much like yours but in a slightly different way.”

  “Men...” The word hung with implied curiosity. He hated to ask anything of such scum, but if his instinct was right and Rory preferred men, Innis might be safer than she seemed.

  Rory lifted a shoulder. “Men, women. Hell, I’d fuck a dog if it did it for me. Depends on what sort of day I’m having.” He approached the chair and dragged a tapered finger over his thigh. “I collect beautiful things as devotedly as I collect weapons. You, MacGregor, are a beautiful weapon. And now, you’re mine.”

  Callan jerked his knee away from his touch and Rory laughed.

  The ache in his chest spread like wildfire. Did they take Gavin? Kill him? Had he died in the fire? Maybe it was better if he dinnae know. But what if they let him go?

  He tried to keep his mind moving forward. No matter what, he’d see this vendetta to the end. His vow was solid. He would be the last person Rory saw before leaving thi
s world. Everything from this moment forward would determine how much Callan made him suffer.

  “What happened to her eyes?”

  “Oh, that.” His lips twisted in what seemed genuine regret. “A bit too much sass, but we worked it out. She’s quite obedient, now, as docile as a doll.” A dreamy glaze covered his eyes. “My trinket.”

  His stomach rolled as he mentally searched for explanations. Any graphic details might push him, and he was already past his breaking point. “What do ye want with her?”

  “She’s my toy,” Rory said as if that explained everything. “She’s whatever I want her to be.”

  Perhaps the flamboyant tells he’d spotted were more than a hunger for the same sex. Maybe effeminate hobbies also came into play. “I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”

  “There’s nothing more beautiful than a woman. The delicate bone structure, the fragility, the soft tickle of a female voice... The ease with which they scream.” His eyes rolled closed, and he shivered as if titillated. “Fascinating creatures.”

  The ease with which they scream...

  Working hard to keep his voice from breaking, he asked, “Do ye hurt her?”

  At this, he scowled. “I take care of my toys so long as they behave. Trinket knows what I need. She likes being in my care. I dress her, brush her. I make her pretty.”

  That dinnae answer his question. “Can she see?”

  No matter what Rory claimed, he’d disfigured her.

  He waved away Callan’s concern. “She has her vision in her good eye.”

  He had the empathetic capacity of a psychopath.

  “Is she on drugs?”

  Rory chuckled. “There are things much more powerful than drugs, MacGregor. Human resolve, for instance. Trust me when I tell you, your sister’s here of her own free will. I don’t lock her in, and yet she chooses to stay. She thanks me for allowing her to live here every single day.”

  Rhys groaned, reminding them of his presence. The guards had done a number on him, and his body was likely numb from hanging on the wall.

  Rory plucked up a small blade from the collection of weapons on the table, using the tip to scrape the dirt out from under a manicured fingernail.