Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

“You’re safe. I’ve still got ye, love.” He wasnae sure what he might do if she left his arms. The slight weight of her body kept him from spiraling into a bloodthirsty manhunt.

  He stared at the glass doors because it was easier than seeing the evidence of destruction cradled in his arms. Red flashed against the pillars as a squad car pulled into the carport.

  How much would they need to know? How much could she actually tell them? How much did she remember and how soon until they figured out who he had to kill?

  Unblinking, he watched the doors, his rocking body soothing him more than it seemed to register with her. “The polis are here.”

  They’d want her coherent. He needed information as well. The more she could speak for herself the better off everyone would be. But he also dinnae want anyone pressuring her.

  No one was going to make her do shite that she dinnae want to do. If this was the most she was capable of, this was it. His first and last concern was Emery.

  He swayed, holding her securely but gently in his arms. “They’ll want to ask ye questions before the ambulance gets here. I willnae leave yer side.”

  The doors parted, and a female officer entered, making a quick scan of the area and spotting them in the seating area of the lobby. A quick assessment of the situation registered in the firm set of her slender jaw.

  Her spine straightened as she approached, but Callan dinnae miss the flutter at the base of the officer’s throat as she muttered something into the radio strapped to her shoulder.

  The passenger door of the squad car opened. A male officer entered the lobby but kept his distance, seeming to guard the door, eyes searching the area.

  The female officer crouched in front of Emery and glanced at him. “What’s her name?” she asked softly.

  “Em’ry. Em’ry Tanner.”

  Her dark brow etched with sympathy and her full lips pursed. She nodded her comprehension of the situation.

  “Ms. Tanner?” She waited for Emery’s eyes to open. “I’m Officer Banks, and that’s my partner, Officer Knowles. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Emery’s lips compressed. Tiny heaves shook her chest, building like an avalanche. She dinnae seem capable of answering, but then her shattered voice emerged, hoarse and soaked with emotion.

  “I was attacked.”

  Callan’s composure slipped, but he dinnae let go. An ache formed in his hollowed heart, seeping into every cold cavity and choking the breath from his lungs. He wasnae prepared to feel the things her pain made him feel.

  Her verbalized confirmation accentuated every horrific mark on her body. It told him there was so much more to the wreckage he could see.

  Officer Banks kept her tone gentle and pressed on. “Were you sexually assaulted during the attack?”

  Emery gave a tense, clipped nod. Her confirmation slammed down like an ax striking his heart, shocking him all over again despite the evidence clinging to her battered body.

  He must have made a sound because the officer’s gaze jumped to his face, but quickly returned to Emery.

  “You’re safe now, Ms. Tanner. There’s an ambulance on its way. Do you know the man with you now?”

  Emery’s eyes closed, a concave divot forming in her throat under her soiled collar as she nodded.

  “Are you okay with talking to me here, Ms. Tanner? Do you feel safe with the man holding you?”

  She nodded again, and Callan breathed a sigh of relief.

  The officer kept attention focused on Emery. “Where were you attacked, Emery?”

  Tremors radiated from her body into his chest. “The ladies room.”

  Before he could wonder how he had not heard a sound, he recalled Marco waxing the floor, the auditory memory so clear it was all he could hear for a split second.

  “Can you tell me which one?”

  She whimpered, and Callan lifted his gaze to the other woman. “I think the one down that hall on the right. I found her just outside the door.”

  It was the one she always used during her shifts. So close and yet...

  “Is that correct?”

  Emery nodded again.

  “Did you recognize the person who did this to you?”

  He held his breath, his ears attuned to every shift of her clothing, every swallow of her ravaged throat.

  A tear escaped her swollen eye and rolled into her hair. “Yes.”

  Callan’s hard gaze fastened to Emery’s face, his nostrils flaring with a heavy, shaken breath. He knew. He knew who it was before she even spoke the fucker’s name—not that he knew his name. But he knew who it was.

  It hit him then, like a bullet spearing his heart. No matter what name she gave, no matter what he did to the motherfucker, nothing would erase what was done. Nothing would save her this suffering, but he wanted to slaughter him anyway—needed to see her avenged.

  “Can you tell me the person’s name?” Officer Banks casually waved her partner closer.

  “W—Wesley. He’s a guest. He ... visited my desk earlier...”

  He knew it. The same man who’d been hanging around her. The same build of the man he’d seen slip into the elevator not thirty minutes ago.

  He inwardly raged. So close, and he’d just walked away. He could see his face clear as day—hear the echo of his drunken friends yelling his name. Wesley.

  Every muscle in Callan’s body locked, vibrating as he shook violently with the need to find and destroy. He focused on the fragile weight of Emery in his arms, as it seemed the only anchor keeping him from a homicidal rampage.

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “N—no.”

  “Did he use a weapon?”

  Her eyes closed, more tears seeping through her damp lashes. “No.”

  “Was anyone else present?”

  “No.”

  The second officer moved closer and quietly announced, “The ambulance is about five minutes away, Banks.” Officer Banks nodded, but dinnae react to this information.

  “Do you know where the assailant went?”

  “He’s staying here,” she whispered, and Callan’s stare followed the second officer toward the reception desk where he spoke into his radio.

  “Can you describe what happened?”

  “I was using the bathroom.” Her words slurred, as they whispered past her barely parted, swollen lips. “He followed me. Sn—n—uck up on me. I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t. When I tried to... He...”

  “Take your time.”

  “He threw me into the wall,” she murmured, and Callan wasnae sure he could handle the details. “I ... I tried to fight him. I screamed. I kept screaming. But he kept hitting me.” Her face crumpled. “He wouldn’t stop...”

  Her words fizzled to nothing. Silence imbued the large space, and no one dared to fill it.

  More lights flashed. Officer Banks spoke in simple sentences. “The ambulance is here, Emery. They’re going to help you. You’re going to a crisis center where they can treat your injuries. Once I’m finished here, I’ll meet you there. Would it be okay with you if we talked some more then?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “Would you like your friend to go with you?”

  He held his breath, unsure if he’d be able to leave her, certain if he stayed at the hotel he’d have one more death on his conscience before dawn, and the polis would be carting him away.

  But he also feared he might not be strong enough to go through this with her. Someone needed to call Matt, the manager. Marco could fill him in.

  His mind moved as if she’d already agreed. He needed to stay with her, no matter how hard it would be because he absolutely wasnae strong enough to stay here.

  Her delicate nod sent a thunderbolt of relief and fear to his heart. The officer’s gaze lifted to Callan and he quickly agreed, “I’ll stay with her.”

  Officer Banks nodded and stood. “Thank you for talking with me, Emery. I’m going to hurry the EMTs along.”

  Emery rolled her face to Callan’s chest
and shuddered out a sob. His arms tightened protectively.

  “Thank you, Callan.” Her thready whisper gutted him.

  “Dinnae thank me, love. I shouldae been there when ye needed me.”

  Her good hand tightened subtly over his arm. “You’re here now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Riordan Private Estate

  Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland

  Four Years Prior

  “Now, what do we have here?”

  Callan’s heart raced as three large guards yanked his head back by his hair and held him immobile. Blood gushed from his cheek, his skull still rattling from where they subdued him with the butt of a gun. His kidney screamed, still throbbing from where the one guard whacked him with a cudgel.

  The one that fisted his hair let go and wedged his fingers into the side of his mouth, wrenching back his lips and baring his teeth. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere now, are ye, ye cunt?”

  Saliva gathered faster than panic as his lips pulled painfully over his gums and he stared at the man responsible for his misery, the man he’d come to kill.

  Oscar Riordan—Rory to most—paced the room as if he had no care in the world. “Callan MacGregor. You’re just as impressive as I remember.”

  His spiked hair and narrow eyes gave him a shrewd appearance, but his build was all together unthreatening. Still, it never escaped Callan’s mind that this was the most dangerous man in Scotland.

  The tight skin at the corners of his mouth tore as the guard subdued his struggles. Grime from those fingers washed to the back of his throat on a gathering puddle of drool, and he groaned, unable to shout fuck you like he wanted.

  Rory peeled away an unruly fingernail and cocked his head. “You killed my chauffeur.”

  He’d killed a lot more than that. Thirty-two cuts marred his arm, one for each evil soul he cleansed from this earth, each one tied to this man’s corruption, and guilty of harming innocent people.

  Not all of them were amateur crooks. Many were seasoned killers. Trusted assassins within Rory’s most intimate circle of colleagues, a circle Callan had penetrated.

  Tonight’s misstep wasnae part of the plan. But when Rhys had shown up, unexpectedly following him, he’d tripped the alarm and seconds later they were being chased down by the hounds of hell, dragged into what he assumed was some sort of holding cell built into the estate basement, and beaten into submission.

  Callan was only catching his breath. Let them assume they had him. They were all going to die before the night ended.

  Except goddamn Rhys. He should have never followed him. If Callan got hurt, he dinnae care, had nothing to lose. Rhys was a liability.

  “I’ll admit,” Rory chuckled as if genuinely amused. “It took me a while to figure out who would have the bollocks to go after my men. Once I realized who you were, I pieced it together.” He stepped closer, the saccharine scent of licorice puffing from every word. “You never took the payout, did you? And then you went and killed ol’ Ramsey for lyin’ about it. Killed Fraser and Campbell, too.” He slapped the side of Callan’s neck twice as if praising a job well done. “Campbell’s poor wife hardly had a tooth left to bury.”

  Saliva continued to gather in the back of his throat, aggravating his breathing. His lips were bone dry and starting to crack.

  “Let go of his face, Brooks.”

  The moment the fingers left his mouth, he stretched his gaunt lips over his teeth and spat on the cement floor. Two men still held his shoulders to the chair where they’d tied his arms. And he was pretty certain that was a gun jabbing into the back of his skull.

  Rhys was unconscious, which was probably for the best at the moment.

  Rory massaged his angular chin, pacing slowly around the chair. “What, exactly, is the end game for you, MacGregor?”

  The eloquent pacing of Rory’s speech and deliberate elocution spoke to an educated background. But Callan was no fool. He saw through every practiced and mocking pronunciation and recognized that a small man like Rory would use every tool at his disposal to intimidate others, including language.

  Articulations dangled from his words like jewels on painted whores. Artificial distractions pasted over something damaged Oscar Riordan dinnae want the world to see.

  Callan saw through the veneer. Well-bred diction did not equal a well-bred man. And beneath those fine clothes and all that fancy speech rested an animal undeserving of trust—an animal he wouldnae let intimidate him.

  Callan bared his teeth and sneered, “It’s over when I cannae take a piss without hittin’ the graves of all yer men.”

  “Ambitious.” He lifted his brows and nodded. “But that will never happen.”

  “Not in your lifetime. I’m afraid that ends tonight.”

  Rory chuckled again, appearing truly tickled by the threat. “Dinnae be so sure.”

  Callan already loosened the rope around his knees. If he could sink his teeth into one of the guards, that could buy him enough time to distract the others and—

  “I’m one hundred percent certain whatever you’re planning is not going to happen. As much as I’d love to see you try, I’m afraid I must insist otherwise.” His gaze dropped to Callan’s chest. “But I would love to postpone our playdate. So much hostility blazing inside of you. I can almost taste it.”

  He’d savor the moment he beat that smirk off that disturbing face. Some men wore menace in heft and breadth. Oscar Riordan had an unremarkable, spindling, effeminate build, but something in his eyes, something that promised he dinnae flinch easily, warned he could probably watch a man die with unblinking fascination.

  The unnatural way his angular face lifted with giddy enthusiasm at the idea of others suffering, proved an unhinged psychopath lingered close to the lunatic’s surface. He likely practiced his first kills in the garden, catching furry little creatures and spooning out their eyes just to see if they would still live.

  Callan never met someone who set off such alarm bells, but they struck with a roaring, soul-shaking clang the second Rory looked him in the eye. Callan would murder him before the night was over. He was merely regaining his strength.

  “Oh, smell the determination wafting from you.” Rory tipped back his head and sniffed the air. “So close to desperation, but there is something heady about it.” He paced closer, an almost euphoric anticipation to his tone. “You’d like nothing more than to kill me. What a lovely sensation, having all that raw, animal focus directed squarely at me.”

  His fingertip trailed up Callan’s throat to his jaw, and he jerked his head away.

  “Easy now.” Oddly, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers clean of any invisible filth. “You see, MacGregor, I find myself intrigued by your capabilities. I’ve watched you fight, but this...” He waved a hand, gesturing to the dark fatigues and the weapons on the table that they stripped off him. “This is a brand new side of you I’ve never seen.” A crooked smirk pulled at his lips as he waggled a brow. “Why, I’m almost twitterpated.”

  He picked up Callan’s scythe and turned the long handle, slowly rotating the hooked blade through the air. “Our ancestors would be proud. Such a fine barbarian.”

  He’d gutted a man by the name of Baird with that one. He’d been paid a hundred pounds to give up Callan’s address, leading Rory’s men right to his home.

  “Here’s what I know, MacGregor. Any man with the bollocks to come to my private residence isnae playin’ with a full deck. Did you come here to die? Typically, I’d accommodate you, but I’m rather amused by your presence, so I must decline.”

  Callan licked the dried blood coating his teeth, his arms stretching the rope with each slow breath. “I came to kill ye.”

  “Well, we’ve determined that is not happening.” He laughed. “At least not tonight.” His lashes lowered as his thin lips formed a smirk. He winked at Callan. “I wonder if it will be you in the end. Something poetic, I hope.”

  He couldnae wrap his thinking around Rory’s. What sort
of man takes pleasure in their own demise? “I promise ye, my face will be the last thing ye see.”

  His hands clamped tight. “Marvelous. I almost cannae wait.” He seemed to savor the promise. “Almost.”

  He fished in the pocket of his suit and withdrew a mobile phone. A terrifying smile bloomed across his face. Despite being a grown man, his grin was made up of underdeveloped baby teeth.

  “You’re going to love this.” He brought the phone to his ear. “Yes. Good. Good. We’re in the back.”

  Muffled grunts came from the corner as Rhys stirred. The guards kicked him hard enough to launch him at Callan’s feet. Rhys peered up at him, face spattered with blood, green eyes wild and terrified.

  Callan gritted his teeth. He should tell him it served him right, but he couldnae. Rhys was his best mate and the only family he had left. He’d trade his own life to save him, but he had people, bad men to kill. Rhys interfered with his objective. His presence complicated everything.

  “You see, I’m well aware you’re not afraid of death. We’ve already established that you had a death wish the moment you came to my home. But your friend here is a great incentive. I’m a real believer in behavior modification by finding the proper motivation, aren’t you? With the right...” He cocked his head. “...source of persuasion, I find anyone will do anything.”

  Rhys rolled to his side, groaning and spitting blood and saliva onto the floor. Fetid dampness seeped from the cinderblock walls marking how deep underground they were.

  Callan met Rory’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “Aye. I’m listening.”

  “I’m a collector of weapons. As you know, I deal with all sorts of people, and one can never be too well armed.”

  “Fuck this, Callan. Dinnae negotiate with this cunt.”

  A guard kicked Rhys in the side, lifting him off the ground and sending him skidding into the wall. In a flash, Rory had Rhys gripped by the jaw, a shiny blade protruding from his fist.

  “Now, now. If ye cannae remember yer manners and refrain from interrupting, I’ll have no choice but to cut out your tongue. Grownups are talking.”

  Callan jerked against the ropes and shouted, “Dinnae lay a fuckin’ hand on him!”