Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  Perhaps he had a story to tell. Or maybe he was trying to rewrite the past.

  “We cannae rewrite the past,” he’d said to her in the days that followed the assault. “All we can do is learn from it.”

  She didn’t know what kind of lesson a woman took away from rape. The things it taught her were uncomfortable facts in her own head.

  No matter how strong she was, a big enough man could always prove her weak.

  No didn’t mean shit.

  If she shared too much of her pain, her healing could quickly become an inconvenience.

  And rape might be a forgivable offense if the guy acted entitled enough and possessed a pretty enough background.

  Those weren’t any lessons she needed to learn. And while they were true, she rejected every one.

  She was going to lose this case. Not that she would be on trial, but he was going to walk away with a slap on the wrist. Everything she read about similar hearings pointed to the same disappointing end.

  His lawyer knew what he was doing, leaking charming little tidbits out to the press about her attacker’s life. She didn’t have a picture or a trophy in her high school. She wasn’t born to a picture- perfect couple on a postcard-worthy winter day. And she didn’t seep charisma the way she recalled it pouring from him the night he approached her desk.

  He was a horror novel wrapped in a taffy-colored book jacket. But in the end, his story would tell mostly of his redeeming qualities, not the cruelties hidden between the lines. He’d slide safely back onto the top shelf, while her ragged, war-torn pages ripped at the seams.

  His sentence would be a blink while hers would last a lifetime. These were the truths of the aching hurt she struggled to carry.

  She’d been counting down the days to get her cast off, for the last bruises to heal. But scars were forever.

  She glanced up from her phone as Callan crossed the lobby, coat on. Her gaze shot to the time. 2:34. Panic welled in her chest as she feared he might have to leave early, but she swallowed it down.

  Her shoulders tensed as he approached. She didn’t want to stay here alone with Peter. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  “Let’s go, love. I think Pete’ll be fine finishin’ out the night on his own.”

  She blinked and turned to Peter who barely looked up from his spy novel to mutter a “See ya.”

  She scooted off her stool and gathered her coat and purse from the back. Callan took the jacket and held it open, helping her slide her cast through the sleeve.

  Her gaze lowered, watching his rough, crooked fingers slide the flat, pearl buttons through the narrow holes.

  “I thought of this, the first time you fixed my buttons. I thought of it every day, from the day you did it.” But she hadn’t thought of it since her life turned upside down.

  He grinned. “Well, I’ve seen how ye struggle to button yourself up properly—even without the cast.”

  A smile teased at her lips. It was stupid and simple, but she loved that he helped her with her coat, adored that he put some sort of importance on the order of her buttons.

  Her hand squeezed over his, which was like third base for them. His pupils darkened, and he swallowed. “I’ll walk ye to yer car.”

  Every night, he followed her home and stayed until she fell asleep. In the morning she always awoke alone with the door locked. It had been five weeks, and she wondered if she’d ever reach a point where she felt safe without him there to tuck her in.

  Their days were their own, but their nights kept them together. Even on her nights off, he’d come by, sometimes bringing take out or suggesting they order delivery.

  When they reached her car, he opened the door and buckled her seatbelt, turning the key as she pressed the brake, since her cast made twisting small objects impossible.

  “I’ll be right behind ye.”

  She waited for him to get to his car. Twenty minutes later they were in her home.

  Changing out of her clothes was a one-handed nightmare, but she’d picked up some creative tricks over the last few weeks. Once in her favorite flannel pants and a loose-neck sweatshirt, she met Callan on the couch.

  He held out his arm, and she nestled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. Ernie pounced onto the cushion beside her and purred, mashing potatoes into the pillow with his little paws.

  “Ready?” Callan’s thumb held their place in the book resting on his thigh.

  “Ready.”

  The spine creaked as he opened it, the scent of the pages piercing the air with that fine fragrance of well-loved paper and tired ink.

  “Where were we?”

  “His letters to Fitzgerald.”

  It seemed they shared a fondness for Hemingway, but having both read and enjoyed his greatest works, Callan thought it fitting to get to know the man behind the masterpieces.

  “There’s nothing more honest than a man’s personal conversations with himself and friends. The truth rests in the belief that such things will never be punished, the trust that our privacy is sacred,” Callan had said.

  Knowing he was a writer himself and journaled religiously in those leather-bound books of his, she was immediately intrigued and captivated ever since. And there was truly nothing more pleasant than listening to his thick Scottish accent strum over the private musings of Ernest Hemingway.

  “Forget your personal tragedy,” he read. “We are all bitched from the start, and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it—don’t cheat with it.”

  Her brow scrunched at the tone of the letter. “I thought Hemingway and Fitzgerald were friends.”

  “I’m not sure a man like Hemingway knew how te be a gentle friend,” Callan mused. “He reveled in brash masculinity, was a hard drinker, and wasnae known for mincing words. I bet the man had an enormous ego tha’ needed frequent stroking. Fitzgerald was more of a social charmer. But they worked in the same setting, and sometimes tha’ is all ye need te form a friendship between two people who couldnae be more opposite.”

  He gave her a pointed look, and she smiled, knowing he was comparing Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s friendship to theirs. She liked the comparison, finding Callan quite close to a Hemingway hero in that he was enduring, honorable, and always appearing to hide a secret sort of pain.

  Her heart warmed. “You got all that from this letter?”

  He shrugged. “Ego’s the heart of every man. The nature of the beast. But every man needs a friend.”

  She nestled closer, and he draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the nook. It was becoming her favorite place to be.

  He continued reading, going back to the line where he’d left off. “But when you get the damned hurt, use it—don’t cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist...”

  They read close to five letters before her eyes grew too heavy to keep open. Television couldn’t hold her attention lately, and the news was a tempting torture she couldn’t always resist. But books, no matter how heart-wrenching the stories, were safe because she could close them at any time.

  The soft thud of the cover shutting only teased the slumbering edges of her mind. Her weight shifted, and she nestled closer to his warm chest, the soft drafts of the house plucking at her clothes as he carried her to her room.

  Covers pressed to her shoulders as he tucked Max by her ear. “Goodnight, leannán,” he whispered, tracing a gentle finger down her cheek.

  “Goodnight, Callan,” she whispered, knowing it was only a matter of time before she’d ask him to stay—unsure what would happen if he did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Riordan Private Estate

  Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland

  Three years and four months prior

  Callan entered the main room of the house to find the evening’s affairs at the height of depravity. Music pumped from speakers and piles of cocaine dusted every surface. Used up women serviced the men, while Rory sprawle
d at the center of it all, a corrupt king reclining on his decaying throne.

  “MacGregor, come in here,” he called. Only then did Callan notice the naked, masculine back of the man with his head between Rory’s legs. “Did I tell ye to stop suckin’ my cock?” he snarled at the young man, shoving his head back down. He lifted his chin to Callan. “Any trouble tonight?”

  He shook his head. The less he said, the sooner he’d bore Rory and be able to escape to his room.

  “Then help yourself to a whore for a pummel.”

  Innis, sitting just beside him on the couch, glanced up at him, moving only her eye. Like he’d ever take Rory up on such an offer. He wouldnae touch a single houk in the place.

  He dropped a fat stack of euros on the table. “I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss.” Yanking the hoormister off his knob, Rory slapped the man across the face. “Do I have te knock yer teeth out te stop ye from rakin’ my fuckin’ cock?” He kicked him away and tucked himself inside his pants. “Trinket, make me a drink.”

  Innis stood, dressed to the nines like a porcelain doll, and went to the bar. She never reacted to the vulgarity that infected this place. Rhys was nowhere to be found but was most likely with the wain while Rory demanded Innis’s presence.

  Callan turned to leave.

  “Hold it, MacGregor. Where’s the rest of it?”

  Grinding his teeth, he turned, but dinnae step any closer. “Stewart’s men need another week.”

  “Oh, another week? That’s fine,” he said, all too easily. “I’d thought I’d explained quite clearly about the requirements of your job, but I guess ye misunderstood.” He tossed the banknotes on the table, his easy tone at complete odds with the irritated spark in his eyes. “And what did you do te them when they claimed they couldnae pay on time?”

  Callan drew in a slow breath, refusing to be baited. “I told them they had better pay up next week, or they’d regret it.”

  Rory smiled slowly, taking the glass from Innis. “Did ya, now? And I bet they found tha’ real threatenin’, being tha’ you’re so big and scary.”

  “They’ll pay—”

  “They were meant to pay tonight!” The glass his sister had just handed him shattered against the wall, the high proof amber seeping like tears down the damask paper. “When I tell you to get me my fuckin’ money, I expect it when I fuckin’ ask!”

  “There were women—”

  “Whores!” He jumped from the couch, kicking the table out of his way and glaring up at Callan’s face. “We had an agreement, MacGregor. You work for me, and that means ye do as I goddamn tell ye.”

  “I give ye my word they’ll pay up when I return.”

  His claim had no backing. But he believed if he gave the Stewarts one last chance, they’d repay him for his leniency.

  “Is that so? Well, what kind of man would I be not to trust my employee’s word? We trust each other, don’t we, MacGregor?” He waited, eyeing him with a threatening stare. “Say ye trust me,” he whispered.

  Words turned to sawdust on his tongue. He’d never trust him. He dreamed of strangling him every night. Rory knew it, too, but took sick pleasure in taunting him. It became a silent guessing game of what would come first, Rory’s murder or Callan’s surrender.

  He held his glare, noting the angry red curves of his upturned nose. It was clear he’d had it buried in coke all night.

  Rory audibly seethed, a slow grin twisting his thin lips around those little teeth. “Say it...”

  Callan locked his jaw. He dinnae care that he was as unpredictable as a tornado. He wasnae uttering a fucking word.

  Rory laughed, and some of the tension unknotted in Callan’s back. Slapping his shoulder as if they shared a private understanding, Rory’s posture shifted from intense to relaxed.

  “Aye. Ye might never say it, but you and I have a special bond. We understand each other—so much it makes yer insides squirm in that wriggling, delicious way that tells ye you’re not sure if ye need to shoot a load or shite yourself.”

  Mostly, the man made Callan sick.

  He paced along the fancy carpet. “But I understand a threat’s only as good as the man backing it. Now, I told ye, if ye worked for me and did what I asked, we’d get along fine, and I meant it.”

  “I’ll have the money next week.”

  “Dinnae interrupt, darling boy. There’s a lesson I’m tryin’ te teach ye here. How are you te trust my word if I break my promises?”

  “I’ll keep my word, Rory. I’ll get ye everything that’s owed. The Stewarts know they have a debt—”

  “The Stewarts are sleepin’ soundly in their beds, not a worry in the world. You have to show them they’re dealin’ with a mad man if ye want them to fear you, someone who will fly off the handle at a moment’s notice, do the unthinkable, and go after whatever it is they love. That’s how ye get through to them. That’s how ye make them obey.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Innis take a slow step backward. It was the first time he ever saw her react to Rory’s ramblings, and it terrified him.

  He nodded. “You’re right. I’ll go back tomorrow and get what they owe. I’ll do whatever needs te be done te make them pay.”

  Rory flung a hand out behind him without turning around. “Not another fuckin’ step.”

  Innis froze, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly.

  “Aye, I believe ye will. But not because of words. Words are just empty promises. You’ll do my bidding because deep down you know that I’m madder than a fuckin’ hatter, and you can trust that until the day ye finally get te watch me die.”

  He hadnae blinked in a while and his eyes burned, but he feared the second he shut them something awful would happen. The air vibrated with the silent threat. And no matter how he tried to guess, he’d never come close to knowing the depravity that danced in Rory’s mind.

  “Smithy!” Rory shouted. “Grab the spider gag and bring it here.” He clicked his fingers the way he often did when commanding Innis’s attention. “Come.”

  Callan’s stomach bottomed out as his sister moved forward reluctantly. Smithy, a filthy drunkard who smelled twice as ugly as he looked, held out a contraption with various metal spikes, a buckle, and a ring.

  “MacGregor, did ye know Smithy was the one to take the head of the woman we left you? Aye, he’s a dedicated part of this operation, and I’ve been meaning te reward him.”

  Smithy’s tongue slithered across his stained teeth as he sneered at Callan, as if he gave a shite who was Rory’s favorite.

  Rory glanced at the bloated tick of a man and held out a hand for the gag. “After the last biting incident...” He unraveled the buckles, stretching the mask for Callan to see. “We take precautions. Sit, Trinket.”

  Callan jolted forward and Rory’s demented glare cut to him, freezing him where he stood. “One more step, MacGregor, and I’ll let Smithy fuck her in the eye. Be grateful I’m only sharing her mouth.”

  His breath shook out of him in jagged skids. “I’ll go back. Right now. I’ll bring ye twice what he owes.”

  Depraved satisfaction glittered in Rory’s eyes while Smithy breathed heavily at his side. Callan could not allow this. His beautiful baby sister...

  “Please, Rory...”

  His fingers tightened in Innis’s hair, and he laughed, jerking her body like a ragdoll. “Too late. If anything, this will teach you te do as you’re told the first time.” He buckled the gag around her head, the metal pins forcing her jaw open. He dragged a tapered finger down her suspended face, rimming her parted lips. “Trinket learned that lesson long ago.”

  “I understand now,” he said frantically, his hand circling the hilt of his knife as Smithy rubbed his swollen cock through his jeans. “Let her go, and I’ll have your money by—”

  “I’m afraid you’re just not mad enough to make me believe you.”

  “I’ll bring you his fucking head!” He dinnae care. He could not allow that bacterial infection of a human bei
ng to touch his sister. “Please, Rory,” he begged.

  He tsked. “So pretty when you beg. Though it’s not a very masculine quality. Careful now, ye wouldnae want some of us gettin’ the wrong idea...”

  Smithy licked his lips with a gnarled tongue, his filthy hands reaching to stroke a lock of Innis’s hair.

  “Rory!” Callan begged desperately.

  “Sit. Down.” The command snapped the entire room into silence. Men stilled, mid-fuck, and stared at what was happening.

  “Don’t any of you fuckin’ look at her!” Callan fisted his withdrawn knife, scanning the room.

  Rory laughed. “Lay one hand on any of my men, and I’ll give them all permission to try her.”

  The knife clattered to the carpet with a solid thump. A hollow ache ruptured poison in his gut. He held up his hands, shaking with shackled rage.

  “Please, Rory. Dinnae do this to her. I beg you. Your anger’s with me. She’s innocent.”

  Rory rubbed his lips together, his small eyes missing nothing. “Look at how ye squirm to protect her. Fascinating.” He sniffed the air, his nostrils stretching under a long inhalation. “Your fear’s exquisite. I can almost smell it.”

  “Please,” he choked, knowing Rory would never go back now. The pleasure for him was in delivering the pain. The emotional torture excited him. It would never be enough to stab a man in the heart, he’d always need to twist the blade.

  “Your vulnerability’s disappointing, MacGregor. I thought ye were stronger than that.”

  “Please...” His weapons were useless, his desperate humility a last resort.

  Rory massaged his chin, studying him. “You’d do almost anything to save her, what, five minutes of degradation?” He glanced at Smithy. “Maybe not even that.”

  “Don’t do this...” Callan swallowed, his disgraceful human nature wrapping him in a crushing fist. Paralyzed by circumstance. Impotent. A wasted shell of a man.

  Rory’s eyes narrowed, the side of his mouth hooking like the curve of Callan’s favorite blade.

  “Offer me something better, MacGregor, and I’ll let her go—unscathed.”