Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  She watched as her casted fingers failed to untwist the childproof cap. The taste of the lid against her teeth seemed more upsetting than the pain. She cried as her pulsing jaw ached, her mouth biting into the lid until it flung out of her hand and rattled across the counter.

  A wretched sob of frustration ripped from her, so raw it scraped out of her throat with the tang of blood. She had no control over anything!

  Then the pounding registered. She blotted her eyes and swallowed hard against the boulder in her throat.

  Callan’s silhouette blurred behind the glass of the front door. She caught her breath, tried to appear more put together than she was, and unlocked the deadbolt.

  His sharp blue eyes locked on her with enough intensity to push her back a step. “I’m not leavin’ you. I dinnae care if ye fall apart a hundred times. I’ll catch ye. No matter how broken ye feel right now, Em’ry, ye cannae cut me. And ye cannae scare me away or push me out because ye think I’ll see something that’s not so pretty.”

  Her breath jerked in as he crossed the threshold. His hands gently gripped her upper arms as he looked down into her wet eyes.

  “Let me watch over ye. Let me be yer eyes so ye can rest, yer hands so ye can heal, yer ears, so ye don’t have te worry. Let me be there for ye. I’m strong and I...”

  Her face pinched, every delicate muscle trembling as tears fell past her lashes. The inarticulate echo of her longing ripped from her lips in a broken sob, scraping past the lump in her throat.

  She couldn’t do this alone, but it belonged solely to her. “It hurts.”

  “I know. And tha’ is why I cannae walk away,” he rasped.

  The tragic intensity that sustained the agony washed her away, but he pulled her from the tide.

  Strong arms wrapped her in borrowed strength. The hollow joy of his touch burned a cold blaze through her broken heart. It was the first time he’d ever touched her so intensely, and she couldn’t bear it, but also couldn’t bring herself to reject it.

  Her tears seeped into his chest, his warm shirt thawing the chill she couldn’t shake as she clung to him like a shield. His whispered words poured over her like a baptism.

  His lips pressed to her hair, speaking softly into her ears, promising not to let go, swearing she was safe, vowing to collect every piece of her that fell.

  They moved to the living room, sitting on the large upholstered chair in the corner when her sobs finally quieted. She blinked with poignant clarity, a strange sense of awe creeping through her.

  Callan rocked her slowly, like he’d done at the hotel, only now his hands touched her in a way they never had. The closeness choked her, but also saved her.

  The gentle way he caressed her face, the weight of his lips pressing to her hair, the curve of his arm under her legs... They melded together so tightly light wouldn’t pass through the space between them.

  It was the most intimate position she’d ever been in, yet...

  She blinked up at him, her lashes spiked with tears. His gaze moved over her face, seeking.

  The give and take of that single glance tied them in an eternal knot a lifetime apart couldn’t undo. She’d never forget how his support cocooned her. She could feel his soul welding to hers, and she welcomed the burn, invited the heavy permanency.

  He wasn’t leaving. He vowed to stay, not out of pity or a sense of obligation, but out of something neither of them could name, something tender and delicate. And she believed he would stay until she no longer needed someone there. It seemed the only belief she held in that moment, and it was enough to save her from herself for a while longer.

  Whatever this was, she couldn’t fight it. She didn’t know how she’d tolerate it, but the sad light in his eyes belonged to her as much as it did to him.

  Some of the crushing weight on her shoulders lifted as if he took the heaviest bits of her thoughts—like he could somehow carry the pain for her.

  The strangest feeling crawled through her, foreign and more animal than human. Less thoughtful and therefore easier. She didn’t question it. Didn’t want to.

  Her hand cupped his jaw, and their breath mingled. Her mask fell away, and the ugliness inside of her showed in bright exposure, but he didn’t flinch. She recognized the flutters of affection, but her vehicle to transport those feelings had been totaled.

  He didn’t seem to mind. So much of him spoke in silence, communicated without expectation.

  A bubble of misplaced laughter tickled her belly, as she finally understood what she felt from him. Acceptance.

  She could be her worst, and he wouldn’t run away. “Why?”

  “Why what?” His head tipped closer.

  “You could have anyone...” It was a foolish thing to say, out of context and undefined, but somehow she sensed he’d understand what she meant. All the feelings she’d kept bottled up over the past three years now spilled between them, mixing.

  Her deepest secrets splattered to the outside in a beautiful accident, a masterpiece of trash. But even at her worst, she’d never been more certain. He cared for her.

  “I dinnae want anyone else. I’ll not let ye run me off because ye think I cannae handle yer pain. I’ve hurt before, Em’ry. I’ve suffered alone, in agony. I’ll not leave ye te do the same.”

  His fingers trailed to the underside of her jaw, stroking the soft skin of her throat in an extremely intimate caress. Her breath hitched, not in fear but with impotent longing.

  “I can’t...”

  “I know.”

  But she wanted to. She wanted to be who she was two days ago, but that girl was gone. Humpty Dumpty was a lie, and love proved an agonizing torture only ever tangible in the shards of fairytales, lies she’d been sold as a child.

  Princes weren’t charming, and big bad wolves would always clean their teeth of little girls no matter what the moral.

  Her plans of happily ever after swept away in the devastation. All that was left stood naked and raw, a woman carved of bone and truth, held in the arms of a man who didn’t need her to lie.

  He didn’t need her pretty. And he didn’t need her whole. He just needed her to trust he wouldn’t let go.

  The tension in her arms wilted and she rested her head against the warm wall of his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart, counting the repetitions, as if they marked the strokes of a threaded needle sewing her back together again.

  For the first time in days, a sense of peace washed over her, enveloping her in an impenetrable shell she could hide behind for as long as she needed. She might always be as delicate as a butterfly, but so long as she stayed in her cocoon of Callan’s arms, she would be safe.

  Even if he eventually left her, she’d always have this moment.

  Chapter Twenty

  The River Nith

  Dock Park, Dumfries—Scotland

  Three and a Half Years Prior

  The singe of burning paper competed with the whisper of frantic prayers as Callan pulled a long drag from the smoke clamped between his lips. The glow of the cherry-red tip and the moon made up the only light for miles on this side of the River Nith.

  He let the man plead to a God who would not come. Took his time collecting himself before he got to work on what needed to be done.

  The switch of a man’s humanity could flip with shocking ease, Callan had come to learn over the past six months. After the first few kills, he’d abandoned his senses, snuffing out the lives of anyone who disrespected the living, anyone who devalued or abused innocent bystanders, anyone he deemed evil enough to thrust into hell.

  As the ticks on his arm collected, each one a cataloged life he’d taken, his mind further untethered. Rhys had Innis. Innis had Uma. Callan had no one. Nothing but time. Time to kill.

  The only way to shut off the pain was to shut off his compassion. Stop feeling and live by an unbreakable code. Easy. Empty. And eventually, the guilt slid away.

  Pain had been anchoring him since boyhood, since the day his da walked away leaving h
is ma crumpled on the floor. Letting go of the hurt liberated the beast he’d kept locked inside. It freed the knots of tension that tightened over the years. And releasing those reins, embracing the truth of all the hurt, set him free.

  No guilt. No shame. No regrets.

  Truth and hurt. Pain would always be more dependable than people. It was a relief to finally embrace something of permanence.

  “It’s time.” He snuffed the smoke out against the sole of his boot and withdrew his blade.

  The crunch of leaves littering the forest floor made a bed of decomposed life. It swallowed the heavy footfalls of his steps, disguising his intent and giving his companion false hope.

  “Please, MacGregor.” Craig toppled back on his hands, crawling away like a scurrying crab. “I’ve got a daughter and a pregnant wife at home.”

  Deaf to excuses, numb at heart, he yanked the man to his knees by his hair, exposing the soft side of his throat where his beard stopped. “The understandin’ was twenty percent. Was I not clear the last time?”

  “I know what I owe ye, and I swear to pay it—with interest. I just need a little more time.”

  He whacked him in the temple with the butt of his knife. “Do ye think I like draggin’ ye out to the middle of nowhere to break your bones? I should beat ye just for makin’ me go te the trouble.”

  Flinching against the rivulets of blood seeping into his eye, Craig whimpered like a baby. “Please...” He sputtered in pathetic fear. “The last time ye did such a number on my legs, I couldnae make my deliveries. If I cannae move my products, I cannae collect, and then I’ve got nothin’ to pay ye wit.”

  The sheer volume of excuses he heard every day desensitized him like a drug. “Enough! This is the second time you’ve been late.”

  He’d pay a debt once for the scum who he held no personal quarrel with, a courtesy to his conscience, but this one was makin’ a habit of dickin’ him around. Takin’ advantage of his patience and his pocket.

  Though he wouldnae know Callan had covered for him with Rory. And his ignorance angered him more.

  Now, he was in the hole, wastin’ his personal time. And there would be more. Every week the commission owed to Rory by these scumbags grew. It was the cost of makin’ a profit in a country his lunatic boss believed he owned.

  There had to be a consequence. “I’ll give ye the choice between yer ear or yer finger.”

  “MacGregor, please! I need—”

  “Many think the ear’s worse, but ye’ll still have some hearin’, just not as much. A finger—even the wee one as humble as it might seem—holds half yer hand’s strength.”

  Craig ducked his head and wept into his palms. Callan gave him a moment, removing his flask to take a swally of whisky. He debated lighting another smoke, but dinnae want to waste the time.

  “Clock’s tickin’, Craig.”

  “Will ye knock me out, first?”

  Callan blew out a long breath. “Which’ll it be?”

  The man looked up at him with the eyes of a lost boy. “The ear’s the right choice, in’it?”

  He shrugged. “The Lord gave ye a backup.” He dinnae see the point in mentioning God also gave him ten fingers. In the end, he was takin’ a piece of him either way.

  “Aye.” His breath shook out in shuddered rasps. “The ear then. But I beg ye te knock me out.”

  Callan circled his kneeling form and cut away the ropes tying his hands. “This is the last time ye’ll be walkin’ out of these woods, Craig. Next time I see ye, ye’ll be payin’ the full debt.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Callan walloped him in the back of the head, dropping his unconscious body to the soggy ground.

  “Idgit.” He crouched, pulling his head by the hair and angling his limp neck before making a quick slice. He tossed the ruined flesh into a riot of leaves and pine needles then rinsed his knife in the river.

  Whistling a tune that had been stuck in his head for days, he lit a fresh smoke and stepped over the prone body, heading back toward Edinburgh.

  The second he stepped away, his mind moved on. Over the last six months, he’d learned more about the underground crime in Scotland than he ever wanted to know.

  His ability to trust others had disintegrated to nothing, and every day the numbness that infected him spread like an aggressive cancer in his bones. Death seemed the only cure.

  Though he despised Rory more and more every day, he’d come to accept they were both monsters. Rory was the broken mind, Callan the hand he used to squeeze the life out of those he controlled. And Rory controlled everything.

  The man had little self-restraint, especially in moments of disappointment. His infantile response to the word no brokered too many yes’s. And years of cowards satisfying his sadistic needs only inflated his sense of grandeur.

  Such narcissism simplified Callan’s vow to never look at himself. He’d burnt out on self-examination and shame months ago, and this was who he was now. No better than the rest.

  But a flicker of the hatred that drove him still kindled inside. A low light others wouldnae see, but it remained the beacon directing him through the darkest hours, lighting his purpose like a fuse to his hidden rage. It patiently flickered as he bided his time, knowing that sooner or later he’d kill them all.

  Sliding into the shadows at Dumfries Railway Station, he waited for the train. The station was empty. He boarded, taking a seat at the far back.

  The unrefined psychopath who employed him desperately wanted to believe in a bond that wasnae there. Rory often waxed on about trust and loyalty. Callan felt nothing but hate for the man.

  Rory was incapable of remorse. And while he’d manipulated loyalty from his sister, thereby evoking the same from Rhys, Callan would never give him the satisfaction.

  To this day, he promised his employer to bank on nothing more than the vow that he’d kill him. Of course, Rory accepted the ongoing threat with perverted amusement and twisted anticipation.

  Callan’s distaste for violence only fed the sadist in Rory. He took great pleasure in flouting his authority and demanding wretched acts of evil—some Callan figured out ways to avoid, others he had no choice but to commit.

  He consoled himself with promises that these were evil men, making money off the innocent. They peddled drugs in once clean towns, forced acts of prostitution on unwilling young men and women, and wouldnae hesitate to slit his throat if they got the upper hand.

  A janitor of Scotland’s most vile creatures, that’s what he’d become. Yet it all boiled down to serving the vilest of all.

  At first, he thought to lie. Men were one thing, but women... Callan couldnae hurt what he’d always been afraid to touch. Women were fragile, breakable. He’d watched his father destroy his mother again and again with barely any effort at all. He couldnae do the same.

  But when he’d lied to Rory, promising he’d roughed up the woman who owed him a debt, someone had ratted him out. The following night her head had been waiting on his dresser, lifeless eyes watching him through slits of sagging, wasted beauty.

  No whispers of who did it. No offer to help bury the severed head. But the message rang loud and clear. Rory would always know when he lied, and there would always be others less afraid of violence to tidy up behind him. He also had people close to Callan to abuse.

  When Callan had placed that woman’s lifeless head in a box, he saw Innis looking back at him and slammed the lid shut. That was when he realized the only way to ever beat this place and break through the wickedness that rotted it from the inside out was to let his own darkness seep through.

  But the second he untethered the snapping beast that growled inside of him, his world washed in shades of red. He welcomed the carnage, swearing he and Rory were not the same, but knowing they were more alike than he ever wanted to admit.

  Pent up rage spilled from him like a tidal wave during that first kill. Once he came to terms with the inescapable entrapment, he embraced the darkness, became a dark passenger to the viole
nce inside of him. A masterpiece carved by malevolence.

  The naked truth of his corrupt soul became an inescapable echo, calling back to him in the silent hours of each night. And soon, Rory’s list wasnae enough.

  Men like Craig dinnae commit crimes deserving of death and something inside of Callan needed a target to kill. It was the only thing keeping him together as he awaited Rory’s turn.

  The downfall of Rory would surely be his boastful ego. He loved to brag about all the disgusting monsters he knew. Callan had become one of them, a twisted puppet in the toy box of a psychopath.

  But every name Rory mentioned, Callan remembered. And one by one, he collected their souls, fed the beast.

  These were not kills sanctioned by anyone other than himself and what he believed was God’s whispers. He needed a purpose, some good to temper the evil, and this was the toll he needed to pay.

  Graham Sùdrach.

  The name embedded in his mind the moment Rory uttered it. He’d practically preened with admiration for the sixty-eight-year-old retired bookkeeper who’d spent thirty years working for Rory.

  His admiration told Callan affection existed between Rory and the bookkeeper. And affection was the counterpoint of grief, the thread that led to attachment. Callan planned to mutilate the things Rory loved—steal them away in a manner even a psychopath would feel.

  Sùdrach was a master at molesting financial records and little boys. During Rory’s drunken blathering, he bragged of how some of Sùdrach’s victims would cry. But he always enjoyed the pain.

  “The tenderness would tear away...” Rory recalled with almost dreamlike awe. “Rip.”

  Who knew the degree of torture that turned a young boy into the sort of monster Rory had become. At some point, he’d stopped squirming and started craving the pain. Then he took the reins and decided to deliver some of his own.

  Rory saw no harm in taking. He never hesitated over consequences, and he often marveled over others’ empathy, watching with a peculiar envy for the feelings he was too broken to have.