Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  His blood stilled in his veins as he understood what Rory wanted him to offer. But he’d never ask for it. It had to come from Callan, a true surrender.

  More poison ruptured inside of him, the toxic burn sloshing around his insides and demolishing his integrity. Innis stared at him from where she kneeled on the floor, frozen, her expression a tragedy he could barely face.

  He couldnae do it.

  Shame and dark self-hatred bled through him. In his broken mind, he consoled himself with lies, promises that she’d recover from this degradation faster than him, that this would be the last time. But the truth swilled in the pit of his rolling stomach, and he staggered back, a jagged breath wrenching from his hollow chest.

  Innis was stronger than him.

  His head bowed, his shame weighing down his gaze as he backed toward the door.

  “I said sit.”

  He stilled at the command in Rory’s voice. The depravity of such a monstrous man could only be trusted in degrees of wickedness. If Callan dinnae obey, Rory would only punish him more—punish her more. He could do worse things than let Smithy rut in her mouth.

  Cold and empty inside, he lowered himself onto a nearby sofa. He dinnae watch. Couldnae. But he sat as he’d been ordered.

  The buzz of Smithy’s zipper tore through the air like a chainsaw. Callan stopped breathing as the inescapable sounds filled the silence. His eyes screwed shut, and Rory’s scent crowded him, the cushions of the sofa shifting under his weight as he whispered in his ear.

  “There it is. All the beauty wrought by madness. Look how prettily she cries—even with only one eye—but she knows better than to make a sound.”

  Rage covered him like cold chainmail as his body shook. He envisioned slaughtering every last one of them, saving Rory for last.

  The violence churning inside of him served as a welcome distraction from the sounds of Smithy using her, grunting. The sounds of her gagging. The disgusting wheeze of his finish.

  It lasted no more than three minutes but stole a decade off his life. Perhaps several from Innis’s.

  He couldnae look at her when it was over, too ashamed by his cowardice to meet her gaze. They were in hell and the longer they stayed, the clearer it became that they were never gettin’ out.

  That night, long after everyone had left the estate or passed out, Callan fed Rory’s prized deerhounds Smithy’s cock and tongue. The rest of him the world would never find.

  It restored nothing, but provided the useless assurance that the swine never lay a finger on his sister again. It was paltry penance to Innis, a pathetic apology he’d never have the strength to say. But it was all he could offer. All he was good for.

  The courage he’d once had now abandoned him. Shame replaced integrity, and of all those he hated, he placed himself first.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Present Day

  Her cast was finally off, and despite the lack of mobility that remained in her hand, she felt like celebrating, so she decided to make Callan a surprise dinner.

  He claimed to love red meat but said he’d never tasted filet mignon, so she wanted to make him the best steak in the world. A steak for a king.

  When he called to say he was leaving the house, she admitted she might have bitten off more than she could chew. Keeping her voice calm, she scooted off the phone and surveyed the damage.

  Mashed potatoes dripped off the cabinets, the corn boiled over onto the stove, and her beautiful filets were overdone. He didn’t live far, so she focused on setting the table, using her grandmother’s china, which she never had an excuse to use. She lit long taper candles and set out champagne on ice.

  Only when she stepped back and surveyed the dining room did she realize she hadn’t made a dinner for friends.

  Despite the ruined food, she’d created a setting for lovers.

  “Fuck,” she breathed, gathering up the dishes and taking them back to the hutch. “Ah!” she hit her bad hand on the cabinet and almost passed out from the sharp spike of pain radiating up her arm.

  “Em’ry?”

  She spun to the door, still holding the plates to her chest.

  Callan stood in the hall wearing a gobsmacked stare.

  Pain still vibrated her arm, but she gave up trying to tuck away the plates. He insisted she no longer hide a key out front, so she gave him the spare, told him to use it, and he had. Now, it was too late.

  “What’s all this?” His gaze swept over the dressed table as he slowly entered the room.

  She swallowed and set the plates down. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  His confused stare jumped to her. “This is for me?”

  She nodded. “You’ve been such a good ... friend to me. I wanted to say thank you. I made you a steak.”

  He blinked at her as if she spoke a different language. “I love steak.”

  “I know. And mashed potatoes and corn. I even picked up a strawberry shortcake for dessert.”

  His brow pinched as he turned back to the table. He lifted the champagne from the ice bucket. “Is this...?”

  “Champagne.” She shrank a little. “I...”

  His face lifted and he drew in a sharp breath. “Ye got yer cast off today?” He crossed the room and gingerly lifted her hand, turning it carefully.

  Her nose crinkled at how thin her fingers had gotten over only a few weeks. “I still can’t move it.”

  “Ye will. You’re used to keepin’ it stiff. Does it hurt?”

  She nodded. “I accidentally hit it just before you walked in. Instant tears.”

  His gaze met hers, his mouth forming a little pout. “No tears.”

  “I toughed it out.”

  He traced his thumb over the arch of her knuckle. “I cannae believe ye made me dinner.”

  “Well,” she said, glancing to the kitchen nervously. “I burnt your dinner and the sides sort of got away from me.”

  “I’ll savor every charred bite.”

  She smiled up at him, her earlier nerves washing away until a sort of buzzing vibrated between them in the air, heady and sharp enough to contract her lungs. A heavy ache formed in the pit of her stomach, rolling like a snowball, gathering everything in its wake.

  It stole her breath. Tricked out her heartbeat. And her skin shivered.

  “Callan?”

  “Yes, love?” he whispered.

  “Do you feel that?”

  He nodded, his hand sliding slowly to her jaw. “I always feel it.”

  She wanted to blurt that this was a friend dinner, not a romantic one. She wanted to push him away and at the same time pull him close. She wanted to scream and cry, but also moan. She wanted to know what to do with her hands.

  “I don’t know where to put my hands,” she murmured and then swallowed.

  “Me neither.”

  Was he just mirroring everything she said to make her feel less awkward?

  She tried to think of the last time a man kissed her. Her mind catapulted into a bad place. Her hands. They were there, scraping along the Formica, her screams echoing as he shattered her bones.

  No!

  Stop!

  Please!

  Useless words.

  Shut up.

  Be still.

  Effective commands.

  Can you tell me what happened?

  Do you know who did this to you?

  Did he use a weapon?

  Stay still!

  Shut up!

  Shut up!

  Shut up!

  Callan let go of her and took a step back. “Em’ry, look at me.”

  Her stare darted to his face. His eyes showed deep concern. The heat between them vanished, chased away by a haunting ghost.

  What was she doing? She couldn’t bear his knowing stare, so she dropped her gaze to the floor.

  “Sorry,” she rasped, the word cut up her throat as it sliced out of her.

  “Do you want me to go?”
>
  She shook her head, unsure what she needed. A tear trickled down her cheek. “I wanted to celebrate something, but everything I do reminds me that I’m broken.”

  His arms closed around her, tighter than she could handle. She flinched, and he whispered, “Give it a second.”

  Her panic calmed, and her weight sagged into him, his familiar presence and scent sheltering her.

  “Yer not broken.”

  She was sick of crying. Sick of losing it. Sick of being fragile. “You say that because you don’t hear the crazy thoughts running through my head.”

  “Tell me what happened,” he whispered. “Walk me through everything that took place in the past two minutes.”

  Her eyes closed and she leaned into him. “I can’t.”

  “You can. They’re just words, Em’ry. No judgment.”

  A vise crushed her heart, and her fingers curled into his shirt, squeezing until the threads wouldn’t give anymore. “I thought you were going to kiss me. I wanted you to, but then ... I didn’t. It felt like he was right here. I could hear him screaming at me to shut up. Then I heard myself screaming it back.”

  His hand dragged up and down her spine, delivering the perfect amount of pressure to keep her anchored.

  “Then I realized I didn’t have my phone. It’s in the kitchen.”

  “Dae ye want me te get it for ye?”

  He was safer than a phone. “No. It doesn’t matter anyway.” She’d had it the whole time in the bathroom, and it didn’t save her.

  Maybe she should get a gun.

  You had your phone in your pocket the whole time...

  Three little buttons... 9-11, what’s your emergency?

  Safety. Trigger. Bang.

  She wanted to curl into herself and disappear. “No matter what I do, I’m trapped. It’s got its claws in me, and I can’t get them out.”

  He massaged the tension at the back of her neck. When had they lowered to the floor and when had she climbed into his lap?

  She shut her eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. Her fingers loosened in the twisted fabric of his shirt, and she flattened the wrinkles with her palm.

  “Your dinner’s going to be cold.”

  “We can reheat it.”

  Those steaks would be charcoal if they suffered any more heat. “I wanted to do something nice for you, and I ruined it.”

  He drew back so he could look her in the eyes. “Listen te me, Em’ry, this dinner, no matter how cold or burnt it is, it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. And sittin’ here holdin’ ye... I could do it forever.”

  She blinked at him, wishing there was some way to show how much he meant to her, but she didn’t want to trigger another meltdown. And she certainly didn’t want to force herself beyond her comfort zone.

  She loved him and had no way to express everything inside of her. But just as she’d always choked on her feelings, just as she couldn’t release that initial scream, she swallowed the truth down, fearful it might die inside of her, never finding its way out.

  Her life felt like a locked in scream, growing inside of her until her being ached with the effort to hold it in. That unspoken scream and her taciturn love ravaged her insides, clawed at her inner walls, fighting to escape. But she feared them with equally paralyzing panic that wouldn’t let her utter a sound.

  The beat of his heart matched her own. So much of him fit precisely in the vacant parts of her that she had to believe, in time, they would get through this. Somehow they would make it work. Either that or he’d grow tired of waiting and move on.

  “Have you ever been so scared you couldn’t scream, Callan?”

  A silly question. Men like Callan feared nothing. He was courage and virility and strength.

  His breathing slowed, his hand stilling at her back. Their position prevented her from looking into his eyes. But she felt his pain without seeing it, heard it in the shift of his breathing before hearing his answer. Easing back, she gaped at him with wide eyes, as the truth ripped from some hidden place of his soul.

  “Aye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Riordan Private Estate

  Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland

  Three years and Three Months Prior

  The wicked rested during the early hours of the day and the Riordan estate collected dust like a tomb for the decaying morality buried within. With no reference beyond the last year, Callan could only assume the downward spiral of Rory’s delinquents, and Rory himself, was a normal occurrence.

  Drug money, pills, and various white packets littered the common areas. It seemed a sloppy method of hiding their supply, and everyone had their nose in the honey pot.

  Maybe he just dinnae see it before. Maybe they hid it because they thought him untrustworthy. But now, there were several newer men hanging around. They came sniffing like foxes and rats, digging out the trash and adding to the mess.

  Eyes that were once sharp and alert now wore a cloud of confusion. Synthetic energy and a clumsy sense of omnipotence wafted from every loser. Clothes were askew, dishes and rubbish were left, and no one, especially Rory, seemed to have a limit when it came to being entertained by extremes.

  Evenings dissolved into debasing of men and women. Orgies carried on in every corner of the house, the slapping of flesh mingling with the wasted scent of sweat, semen, and depravity.

  It would be so simple to join them. Easier. Like a long-awaited exhale of breath he’d been holding since his father left. How divine it could be to just stop fighting.

  His resolve overwhelmed him to the point of resentment. Always swimming against the current had worn him down to nothing, a jetty beaten to a nub. He felt himself shrinking, the temptation to swallow a few pills, grab a woman and disappear into sweet oblivion pulled hard, but he did none of those things.

  Perhaps that was why he ended up with Rory. Callan could be such a self-sabotaging masochist, a tortured hero who never won, the perfect plaything for a psychopathic sadist.

  As Callan lie awake in bed, the house quieted but hadnae yet silenced. The men liked to poke at him, throw women his way and take bets about when he’d give in and let go.

  They knew he judged and despised them. The women were not humans to them. They were vessels, receptacles brought here with lies and paid far too little for the abuses they endured.

  He would never lower himself to that level. Sex and violence seemed to dance so well. The hair tugging, the slapping, the thrusting. It scared him. Women were simply too delicate and, despite all his efforts, he was as monstrous as the rest of them. What if he broke one?

  His gaze shifted in the darkness of his private bedroom, his body alert to the creeping footfalls in the hall. Lying on his back in his unadorned bed, his fingers closed around the butt of his knife but he remained perfectly still.

  The flash of shadowed feet fell outside his door, and he waited.

  The handle clicked, and the floorboard that usually creaked seemed purposely avoided. Soft panting sounded, as a masculine silhouette slipped inside his cell.

  A man. Was this about Smithy? Perhaps the kid he’d stabbed in the hand earlier for sassing off?

  The darkness took up mass in the windowless room, and Callan waited, pretending to sleep, and letting the unforeseen space make its own obstacles for his unwelcomed visitor. One misstep and—

  A foot bumped into the desk, and he sprang into action. He leaped to his feet, knowing the layout with his eyes closed, and threw his guest to the floor.

  A hard grunt escaped as he yanked the man’s head back, shoving his knife under the cleft of his jaw.

  “Breathe, and I’ll bury my blade in you. What do you want?” he hissed.

  “Callan, it’s me!”

  His muscles loosened. “Rhys?”

  “Yes, you twat!”

  Callan unclenched his fingers fisting his hair, but held onto his knife. Rhys grunted. The familiar scent of his friend penetrated his defenses, and he bac
ked off.

  He found the light. Rhys panted on the floor, inspecting his jaw with his fingers and checking them for blood. “Damn it, Callan!”

  “What the fuck?” he snapped, pocketing his knife. “What are ye doin’ sneakin’ in here like that? You’re lucky I dinnae kill ye.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “What money?”

  “The money you’re gettin’ paid. And a weapon. I need several. The fucks stole my gun and never gave it back.”

  While Rhys stuck around the estate, he stayed mostly hidden. Rory openly disliked him, calling him a leech or a parasite or a squatter, and tossing food at him whenever he passed. For the most part, they avoided each other.

  Rhys was there for Innis and Uma. So long as Innis chose to stay, Rhys wouldnae leave her.

  “Dae yourself a favor and dinnae concern yourself with the arrangements between Rory and me. And whatever you’re thinkin’ ye need a pistol for, rethink it.”

  “Fuck you, Callan. He let tha’ prick put his hands on her. Ye shouldae stopped him—”

  He flew across the room, gripping Rhys by the throat, squashing any further accusations. “Tread very carefully, my friend. I did everything I could to save her—”

  “Bullshite,” Rhys wheezed, fingers scraping at Callan’s hold. “You just ... sat there. Let it happen.”

  Fury boiled over, and he jerked him with a hard shake. “Ye have no idea what I endure te protect her! Dinnae dare say I do nothin’! I’ve done everything! I’ve got nothin’ left in me after livin’ in this rot, but I fuckin’ stay! For her.”

  “You let that scum inside your sister!”

  Callan slammed Rhys’s head into the plaster. “And where were you?” He seethed with outrage, beyond his breaking point. “Ye lurk in the shadows, playin’ judge and jury, but you’re not there when it counts.”

  He shoved Callan with shocking force. “That’s why I’m leavin’! I’m gonna kill tha’ fuck, Rory, and get her and Uma out of here!”

  He released him. “Ye think it’s so easy, tha’ ye can just leave? I’ve been fully armed since the day we arrived. Carelessness will get ye killed, Rhys.” He tapped his temple. “Use yer head. He’s got more power in his wee pinkie than you’ll ever have. And if he hears about yer plans, he’ll take it out on her—just like he did te punish me.”