Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  To kiss Emery one day, truly kiss her... It would be... A description escaped him.

  The sour tension in his gut returned as he glared at the elevators. Did she stop somewhere? Perhaps she met up with...

  He ground his teeth. She was delivering receipts just like she did every night. The hotel was full, that was all.

  He glared at his watch as the minutes ticked by. His gnarled hand slapped the leather cover of his journal shut, his thumb pressing over each knuckle and popping the joints in a practiced click, click, click as his eyes bored holes in the elevator doors. He stood to stretch his legs.

  The soles of his feet flattened into the floor, and he focused on his core rather than waiting for his legs to captain the ship. His toes spread inside his boots, an old trick to retain his balance. The flesh on the back of his calves pulled.

  “Fuck it.”

  He pocketed his journal and removed his keys. It was probably best that he got out of there before she realized he’d come back.

  Returning the chair to the table, he rounded the marble pillars and crossed the lobby when something caught his eye. In a flash, not even half a second long, he understood something terrible had kept her. The blood rushed from his head, and he knew when he saw her stumble along the wall, it was the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Ten

  Perth—Scotland

  Four and a Half Years Prior...

  “Let’s try this again.” The lamplight caught on the sharp blade of Callan’s knife as he tightened his grip around Finlay Campbell’s throat.

  Campbell’s eyes bulged. Callan’s hand pressed hard into his trachea. Blood trickled from his nose, his frantic mumbles pleading jabbered fear.

  Callan’s booted foot pressed into the bedding just beside the man’s head, his weight distributed heavily over his lungs. Campbell had no chance to run. The short demand for him to open his fuckin’ eyes had been his only wake-up call, and by then Callan already had him.

  “I’m going to ask ye a question, and you’re only going to speak the answer. If you’re lyin’, I’ll know. And if ye scream, I’ll snap your fuckin’ fingers off one by fuckin’ one. Understand?”

  Campbell nodded as much as he could, his heavily browed eyes squinting in the dim lamplight. Beads of sweat gathered on his nose, his ruddy flesh a chewed up bubblegum pink that provoked the urge to spit.

  Callan switched his hold to the man’s hand, crushing the small bones. Keeping his knee buried in Campbell’s chest, he hissed out his questions with a hushed demonic force.

  “What’s yer name?” He knew exactly who the cocksucker was, but wanted to make sure the fucker told the truth.

  “F—F—F—inlay Campbell.”

  “What do you do te make a living, Finlay Campbell?”

  “I manage a launderette—ach!”

  Like crushing a finch, several delicate bones in his hand crunched painfully. “Dinnae lie to me!”

  “I swear it! A little place on Ash Grove. Please dinnae break my hand!”

  Callan’s glance swept over the flat. No manager of a launderette could afford such luxuries. “How do ye know Rory?”

  “I dinnae ken no Rory. Ahh!”

  The finger snapped with little effort. “Oscar. Riordan. How do ye know him?”

  “What did ye do te my hand? I’ll not be able te work!”

  Callan gripped his brittle fingers, several already broken and hanging cockeyed from the tendons. He dug his knee deeper, pushing Campbell harder against the bedding.

  “Answer the fuckin’ question!”

  Campbell sobbed. Spittle coated his lips as he blubbered like a wee baby over a few broken bits. “I did a few jobs for him,” he rushed out. “Nothing major. I swear I’ve not seen him in over a year. Please dinnae hurt me no more.”

  “What kind of jobs?”

  “Shite work. Sometimes I’d run a delivery for him, pickin’ up a package or droppin’ messages.”

  “How would ye deliver the messages?”

  “However he told me.”

  His grip tightened, and the man whimpered like a toddler. “Be. More. Specific.”

  “I dinnae ken! Every time was different. Ahh! Fuck! All right!” Sweat poured profusely from the man’s head, leaving a dark stain on the pillow. “If someone owed him money, I’d shake ’em up a bit so they’d make a payment. But I never really hurt no one. Only thieves and people who owed him. They mostly all deserved it—Ahh! Christ!”

  Callan released his shattered hand and climbed off the bed. Campbell pulled his arm to his chest, sniveling, and too distracted by the pain to make a run for it.

  Callan cinched a rope around his feet.

  “What are ye doin’? I told ye everything I know!” He kicked and tried to sit up, but Callan cuffed his ear, dropping him back to the bed.

  He yanked Campbell’s hand back and tied it to the bedpost, twisting the rope extra tight around the shattered bones. He struggled in vain.

  Pulling a flask from his jacket, Callan sprinkled the contents over the man. When the decanter was empty, he twisted the cap on and returned it to his pocket.

  The heady scent of gasoline filled the air with unmistakable promise, leaving Callan both giddy and nauseous. So came the truth of his irrevocable past and unreliable future. No fear. Only promise. Only vengeance.

  “What are ye doin’? Let me up! I dinnae ken anything else to tell ye!”

  Mockery crept into Callan’s tone. “I’m deliverin’ a message.”

  Campbell likely recognized the scent of liquid death saturating his clothes. He screamed in frantic desperation for someone to help.

  Callan slapped him hard, and he silenced. If anything, a man should have the dignity to die like a man. At least he’d be relieved of the exquisite burden of living, while others were sentenced to stay and face the ceaseless continuation of time.

  Leaning close, he gripped Campbell’s face with punishing force and held his stare. “A year and a half ago ye took a stolen car to the dodgy end of Glasgow with a man named Fraser. Ye threw a bottle bomb through the window and left, burning the house to the ground with everything I loved inside.”

  The man shut his eyes, but not before Callan read his guilt. There would be no denying it either way. Fraser had confessed everything just minutes before breathing his last gurgled breath.

  Callan’s life existed here, now, in the vestibule of death, chaperoning evil souls into hell. Perhaps he was the devil. No amount of begging and pleading could distract him from his purpose. His entire existence, his every breath, channeled into destroying those who thought to destroy him.

  And there was also the issue of his rage, which needed a target. “Open yer fuckin’ eyes and face what you’ve done!”

  Breath shook out of the man as he flinchingly forced his eyes open.

  The beast prowling beneath Callan’s surface preened and purred, sharp claws flexing and teeth chomping for the savory taste of vengeance and enemy flesh. His voice vibrated with sadistic promise as he stood over the bed. “My name is Callan MacGregor. My face will be the last thing ye see before looking into the eyes of Satan himself. Yer life is the price for those I loved. Yer sins are the toll tha’ shall deliver ye to hell.”

  “Please! I need a priest!”

  Callan cocked his head, a wooden match pinched tight between his finger and thumb. “I deliver evil, not mercy.” He struck the match and dropped it to his chest.

  Flames engulfed the bed. Screams ignited within, a lunatic trapped with no sense or hope of salvation. The thrashing shadows of frantic suffering heightened the stench of burning hair and flesh. And Callan watched.

  But no measure of peace came.

  When screams finally silenced, the heat of the burning bed and cindered body toasting his chest and shins, he withdrew his knife and pushed up his sleeve. There, beside the nine lines just starting to scab, he sliced another tick.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Pr
esent Day

  His gaze jerked to her face, his heart lurching, as his entire existence came to a shuddering halt. Emery. Staggering down the hall, leaning into the wall... What the hell was he seeing?

  His eyes blinked hard. Unwelcomed fears—the worst sort—took shape before him as her battered face and ruined clothes tripped into view.

  And as she braced herself against the wall still several yards away, arms clutching her ribs, hair tumbled in damp snarls, his mind registered the unmistakable scent of blood.

  “God, what have Ye done?” The words breathed past his lips as his gut hollowed with sickening dread.

  No. Not her...

  The stench of vomit threw him into a dead sprint.

  “Who did this to you?” His sweet, precious, gentle Emery.

  She flinched, and he shook with the effort to contain his fury, the need to take her into his arms and protect her from such a hideous world.

  Fuck, her head was bashed and bleedin’. Her lip split at the soft pillowy crease where a dark bruise already formed.

  A hard lump choked him. Vomit and blood soiled her skin, hair, and clothes. Her torn blouse hung like wet gauze, soaked with vomit and clinging to her skin. Buttons were missing, and her bra strap showed. Her skirt hitched beyond modesty, beyond Emery.

  He’d watched countless men die, beat others within an inch of their death, but he could hardly look at the vileness marking her. The sight of her damaged body too much even for him.

  His hands hovered, palms out as if he could somehow offer comfort without touching her. She dinnae seem to register his presence.

  He quickly removed his coat. “I’ll not touch you. Just...” He gently draped it over her shoulders. The weight seemed too much for her as she sagged closer to the wall. “Tell me what happened, love.”

  His hands frantically ached to adjust her clothes but touching her seemed a graver crime than usual. She shook so intensely. Or was that him?

  His breath hitched as he spotted her shredded stockings bunched beneath her knee. His stomach lurched as his gaze locked on her thighs where blood and...

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he rasped, his voice trembling on a shallow breath.

  She slid down the wall, and a sob broke from her battered lips. He had no choice but to catch her, to save her from crashing to the floor. Her unfocused eyes looked past him, gasping breaths sobbing inward as she fell into a state of broken panic.

  He clutched her shoulders, and her body jerked, an animal response so unrefined her fear shattered him. “Em’ry, it’s me.”

  “No.” Her eyes screwed shut as her strength gave out and she moaned, “No more...”

  It killed him to have to calm her with strength, but once she stilled he gently cupped her cheeks and put his face in her view. “Em’ry, look at me. Look into my eyes and know that yer safe. I’ve got ye, love, and I’ll not let ye out of my sight. I’ll not let anyone hurt ye.”

  She’d already been hurt. His mind swam in a squall of regret. He should have been there. He should have kept a better eye on her. The scent of sweat and tears and every other bodily fluid stung his nose, and he nearly tossed. He needed a phone.

  “Can I lift ye up?”

  Something sparked in her eyes, perhaps recognition, but the lingering dazed look terrified him. He had no idea how badly she’d hit her head or the extent of her other injuries. Rage unraveled in him at the speed of light.

  What if he moved her and she flipped out? Sometimes, when adrenaline ran so close to the surface, human contact was intolerable.

  He searched his pockets for his phone. Nothing. “Do you have your mobile on ye, love? I dinnae want to leave you. We need to call for help.”

  Something shifted in her eyes, as they widened for a split second. Beneath the smeared makeup and blood, the color leached from her skin.

  She’d been cradling her right hand to her chest, but when she let go of it, he diagnosed it as broken. He’d slaughter whoever did this to her.

  She reached a trembling hand into the pocket of her blazer and choked on a sob as she pulled out her phone tangled in a nest of headphone cords. Her shaking fingers gripped it, handing it over as her face collapsed like a pricked balloon.

  He carefully removed it from her trembling fingers, trying not to focus on the broken, chipped nails that had been perfect an hour ago.

  “It’s all right, love,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.”

  His fingers shook so fiercely he struggled to dial the correct numbers. As he waited for the call to connect, he tried to keep her communicating. “I willnae hurt ye, Em’ry. Let me see your hand.”

  Slowly, her arms folded out from her shuddering body and he glared at her dainty fingers, noting the red bruises taking shape beneath swollen joints. Definitely broken.

  The second the dispatcher answered, he gave them the necessary details to get there right away. Then ended the call and pocketed the phone. The immediate call back vibrated against his leg, but his full focus returned to Emery, distracting him from all else.

  A scarlet smear of blood beneath her fluttering nostrils caught his eye, and he wanted to scream and kill someone. Who?

  His forearm burned for another mark. He’d sworn the last tally had been carved, but this changed everything. Berserk rage threatened to shatter his well-practiced calm, revealing everything he never wanted her to see. Only her current state kept him in check, her need for his calm more significant than his inner turmoil screaming to unleash. He buried his thirst for vengeance, training his focus on her wellbeing.

  But there would be a reckoning.

  “Help’s on the way, leannán. The polis are comin’.” His fists clenched at his side. He wanted to comfort her, but every time he lifted a hand to her she tensed. Of course, she didnae want his hands on her—at a time like this or any time at all.

  Her teeth chattered, a sign that her body was going into shock. He needed to keep her alert for when the authorities arrived. “Do ye know who did this to ye, Em’ry?”

  Her body twitched, her shoulders shaking with a forceful shiver. Crazed fury seethed under his skin, but he tamped it down.

  His eyes searched the empty hall. They were too far from the front entrance. He hated having to move her but wanted to get her right where the EMTs could find her. She was in bad shape and they couldnae waste time.

  “We need to take ye to the lobby. Can ye walk?”

  Her head tipped in a jagged nod but she dinnae stand.

  He wasnae sure of the extent of her injuries—couldnae let his mind imagine more than what he saw. Cognitively, she only seemed about a quarter there, the rest of her trembling in shock.

  The dark centers of her pupils swallowed the color of her eyes, and her teeth continued to chatter. A thousand years passed as he debated what to do, no solution good enough.

  “I’m gonna help ye stand, but first I need ye to tell me what hurts.” He dinnae want to cause more damage. “Can ye tell me, love? Can ye talk to me?”

  She blinked her unfocused gaze coming to rest on his face. “E—e—everything,” she mouthed, the word coming out on a whispered breath, enough for him to hear how hoarse her voice was.

  Dear God, she’d screamed... She’d been callin’ for help, and no one fuckin’ heard her. His eyes closed for a brief moment as agonizing regret washed over him like razor blades and salt.

  His jaw cracked as he gritted his teeth. He’d murder the fucker that did this to her. Slaughter him. Make him suffer a million times over for every hair harmed on her body. How dare anyone think they could lay an unkind finger on her?

  Taking a long breath that hardly reached his lungs, he kept his voice low and measured. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, love. Take my arm.”

  She slowly latched her arm around his, her touch as fragile as a bird’s wing. She kept her damaged hand tucked to her chest.

  He stood slowly, careful not to jostle her in any way, but she gasped in pain the moment her weight shifted off the wall onto her legs
. Her knees buckled and her grip slipped, her body collapsing too fast to consider the consequences of catching her.

  He scooped her into his arms, pulling her protectively to his chest, and stood extremely still, giving them each a moment to adjust and trying not to focus on how right her weight felt in his arms.

  “I’ve got ye. You’re safe.”

  She met his gaze, her big eyes looking up with uncertainty and far too much innocence. The tension in her body eased as her eyes rolled back.

  “Em’ry.”

  Her head lolled to his chest, her entire body limp.

  “Fuck.” Perhaps this was best. Unconsciousness might save her suffering.

  With agile steps, he carried her to the lobby and situated her on his lap as he settled onto a seat directly across from the main entrance.

  Breathing through the panic, he swallowed convulsively and rasped, “Em’ry. Love, I need ye to open your eyes.”

  He hated that his need to wake her stemmed as much from selfishness as it did concern. He couldnae have her unconscious when the polis arrived, couldnae have them assumin’ he had anything to do with what happened. Most of all, he couldnae have them nosin’ around in their computers with his name.

  His crooked, scarred knuckle grazed the delicate arch of her cheek. “Em’ry. Please, love, open yer eyes for me.”

  Her face drooped against his chest, her weight utterly insignificant in his arms. She was so wee, so delicate. He should have never left her alone. He wasnae sure he’d ever be able to leave her alone again.

  Her brow pinched, and he sensed her coming to. He rocked her gently, humming a lullaby his ma used to hum to him, the same one he’d hummed to Innis, and she’d hummed to Gavin.

  She moaned, soft and shifting into a sigh of pain. Damn how she must hurt. He loosened his hold but somehow cradled her closer.

  Her eyes screwed tight, her body tensing. He wanted to tell her to try not to tense. Her muscles were overtaxed as is. Poor thing.