Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  Plea bargains were discussed, but Blaine continued to claim he was innocent. Like a thunderstorm on the horizon, they waited for the coming storm.

  Emery feared she’d lose. He wanted to tell her, as the victim who’d done everything right after a trauma, a loss would be impossible. She wasnae the one on trial. It was Blaine versus the people.

  But the criminal justice system let evil men walk free every day. Stroke the right judge or politician, and it was a natural reflex for them to get hard.

  Wesley Blaine might walk after what he’d done. Sure, he’d serve a wee sentence, earn a slap on the wrist hard enough to prove he’d been punished, but he’d never get what he deserved. He’d never know the hurt he caused her.

  And Emery would have to live with that. She’d have to swallow down the bitter truth that someone had hurt her in the vilest way and accept that the world forgave him before the injuries had time to heal—if they ever would.

  She and Callan had been dancing around a relationship, neither of them emotionally equipped to launch into physical intimacy. Callan wanted her with a desperation that terrified him, but he loved her more, loved her enough to save her from the evil inside of him.

  Emery, on the other hand... She dinnae restrain herself for fear that she might hurt him. She was locked in a cell of another man’s making. A prisoner inside her own body and he dinnae have the key to let her out.

  Wesley Blaine was guilty. The evidence of his crime lived and breathed. Yet he flouted innocence with a Soviet confidence that showed no symptoms of defeat.

  This cocksucker had somehow turned into the world’s Boy Scout overnight. His accomplishments were dumped into the media by the truckload, and they gobbled every bit of bullshite up.

  An advocate had been a recommendation to Emery from Officer Banks. Harold Wong wasnae a sharp-dressed shark like the defendant’s attorney. No, he was a recovering alcoholic with a mediocre background in law and a closet full of dated suits, a good guy who had a bad few years, now trying to resurrect his career in advocacy by assisting a client in a high profile case.

  Blind anticipation burned across Callan’s nerves when Emery described how the man clumsily handled the facts while offering disjointed suggestions to help her cope. The man had good intentions, but his bumbling delivery sometimes left Emery shaken and feeling without a champion.

  Harold Wong was lacking in the emotional support department, but he made up for it in other areas. As an advocate, he intercepted on Emery’s behalf whenever possible. He provided resources and handled a lot of the paperwork.

  Banker boxes now shuffled back and forth between the lawyers, packed with details about the case, intimate photos of his precious Emery marked with the evidence of what that monster did to her.

  There were enough medical records to assume Blaine wouldnae get pardoned, but the district attorney—the prosecutor against Blaine—just so happened to also have family in Ansley Park, Georgia. Coincidence?

  So as those dreaded dates approached, the outcomes whittled down. Blaine could take a plea bargain, saving Emery the pain of testifying but getting away with a pitiful sentence compared to the crime. Or they could go to trial. The D.A. might go hard or take it easy on the accused. Either way, the defense would use every weapon they have against Emery. In the end, it would all come down to the judge at the sentencing.

  “Callan?”

  He glanced up from his journal, Emery standing in the doorway of one of the hotel boardrooms. They’d come in for an employee brunch and a meeting about the upcoming season, which had wrapped up a bit ago. “Are ye ready te go?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been calling your phone.”

  He glanced at his mobile, seeing the notification of a missed call. She was getting around the hotel better these days, but she still didnae like walkin’ the halls alone.

  “I’m sorry, love. I had it on silent from the meeting.” He adjusted the volume.

  He’d picked her up that morning, seein’ no point in driving separately. Any chance he had to spend time with her, he wanted to take.

  He wanted a lot of things lately. Namely, he wanted to let her in, open himself up, and show her all the secrets he hid inside. But that would be a mistake.

  “Matt said we could split up the leftovers. I have a box up front for you.”

  She was always so thoughtful of him, making him romantic dinners and picking up his favorite snacks at the store. He wished he could do something nice for her, something that showed her how much he loved her.

  He tucked his journal away and gathered his phone. When she stepped into the hall, he caught her arm, a bolt of lightning striking through him like it always did whenever he touched her.

  He kept his grip loose, and she looked up at him, her face a cross of hungry curiosity and anxious worry. Tenderness breathed from her. Her beauty never failed to strike him dumb, yet she remained as unassuming as a wildflower.

  The dream of one day knowing her in any sort of carnal way blended into the shadows of his zealous devotion to take care of her. For her, he could be as patient as the trees.

  “Would ye like te come te my home?” he heard himself ask without thinking through the invitation.

  Her full lips parted in surprise, and he was once again a prisoner to the dazzling totality of her loveliness as she smiled. His hands itched to trace her serpentine curves, but he lacked a delicate touch, and that was what she needed.

  Even holding her wrist took great restraint. And when she sometimes crawled onto him, as if trying to hide in his strength and seek protection, he struggled not to crush her to him. Her softness countered his hardness, and whenever she touched him, he turned to granite.

  “I’d love to,” she rasped. “I’ve been dying to see where you live, but I didn’t want to impose or invite myself...”

  Sometimes her joy seemed as fragile as cobwebs left in the morning dew. He never thought seeing his home might be something she wondered about.

  His desire to please her hit him with titanic force. Though his home opened him up in the most vulnerable way, let her into parts of his past he preferred to keep private, he wanted to hold that smile on her face forever. He’d risk the painful, possibly dangerous exposure if it meant even a minute of her happiness.

  His hand slipped to hers, their fingers entwining like children who knew no other way to care. His pulse fluttered like a dove’s wing. Her cheeks flushed with the soft pink of a blushing cloud. Her smile quivered, but she dinnae pull away.

  He boldly dragged his thumb down the fragile line of her finger and a flame of scarlet burned across her chest. Her breath hitched, and the jumping pulse at her wrist quickened.

  Desire knotted inside him, tightening every muscle until he worried he wouldnae be able to walk. Sometimes those strings pulled so tight, he felt her body cinching closer without moving an inch.

  “I’ve been thinkin’,” he whispered, his gaze locked with hers as the fire burned up his arm.

  “About?” She watched him like a fitful girl, still full of dreams, forgetting her demons for a moment.

  His heart pounded in his throat. “What it might be like te kiss you.”

  He waited for her gaze to tear away, expected her to sever all contact. The aftermath of his confession could strangle the rest of their day in awkwardness, and he dinnae want that, but he also—desperately—wanted to feel her lips under his.

  She continued to stare up at him, her eyes as unfathomable as the stars.

  He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “Is that somethin’ ye think ye might like to try, leannán?”

  Her tongue darted along her lower lip. “Why do you call me that?”

  He never really thought of it. “It’s Gaelic for sweetheart.”

  Her hand tightened, and his soul thirsted to taste her. Her breath shook into the silence. “Yes, I think I’d like to try.”

  Everything inside of him twisted and released with pulsing need. His feet shifted, but his legs felt heavy. A
shiver chilled him under his clothes, despite the heat of his blood.

  The soft echo of his slow breath matched hers. Everything amplified the moment he traced a gentle finger down the side of her face.

  He feared moving too quickly and frightening her. Worried if he botched this, it would take a million years of waiting before he found the courage to try again.

  Her fawn colored lashes dropped low, as she watched him through half-lidded eyes. The raw composition of his soul, written from tragedy and wrung of blood, ached for experiences he dinnae possess.

  Nowhere in his past had he learned how to touch a woman the way she deserved to be touched. The pain of inadequacy squeezed him hard. He couldnae breathe.

  He’d begged for this moment a thousand times, and she’d given it to him, but now, as he leaned in close, he panicked.

  His gaze cut away. “Show me how.” The plea ravaged his manhood, leaving him raw and painfully exposed.

  He glanced back to her, and she blinked, the sharp flash of confusion slashing the threads that bound them. He wanted to pull back, retract the last two minutes and burn them to dust.

  He closed his eyes at the soft caress of her fingers to his cheek. She gentled him like one steadied a wild horse. With slow, courageous motions, she lifted to her toes and closed the distance.

  The press of her warm lips to his sent desire tunneling through him like fire. His eyes squeezed shut, perhaps against tears, tears reflexively sent to numb the pain of learning such pleasure could exist. It terrified and excited him.

  Damp heat traced the seam of his lips, and he opened, gasping against her tender mouth.

  Not realizing he’d moved, his hand closed around her hip. He clutched her shirt in his fist so as not to hurt her. Everything inside of him clasped tight.

  Her tongue swept into his mouth, and a moan vibrated from his chest. His lips instinctively tried to catch it, chasing the soft edges of her mouth with his.

  He shuffled forward, his hard body pressing to her soft front. Her fingers teased the hair at the back of his neck, and he angled his head, taking the kiss deeper.

  “Em’ry,” he breathed, tightening his hold.

  The door behind her bumped the wall with a thud as his hips reflexively ground against her stomach. A soft gasp slipped past her lips, and he swallowed it whole. Hungry for more.

  Her warmth cushioned him. He wanted to plow through her, sink into every heated crevice. Bury himself so deep that he existed only through her, in her.

  “Callan, stop.”

  He stilled at the soft plea, dizzy and taking a moment to recall where he was and what they were doing.

  He immediately released her and took a step back. His gaze darted to the floor as awareness settled over him like daggers. His rock hard body pulsed with thick desire he couldnae contain, couldnae hide.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She remained silent, and he couldnae bring himself to look at her, couldnae face the contempt he might find in her beautiful eyes.

  “I shouldnae have touched ye.”

  “It’s ... okay.”

  His head jerked, and shock knifed through him when he saw the uncertain smile on her swollen lips. “I dinnae scare you?”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “The only thing that scared me was how much I liked it.”

  The breath in his lungs rushed out with a shove of relief. “I liked it too.” Too much.

  A small divot formed between her brows. “Why did you ask me to show you how?”

  Vulnerability prickled at the back of his neck. “I dinnae ken how you’d want te be touched.” A partial truth.

  Her smile turned precious, slightly shy yet exceedingly satisfied. Satisfaction won out, and she beamed at him. “Will you take me to your house now?”

  She was everything. Her infectious happiness penetrated his anxiety, and he nodded. “Aye. Let’s get the leftovers and go.”

  He followed her into the empty hall, and as they walked in silence, his heart skipped a beat. Her hand slipped into his, like a lost bird finally returning to last year’s nest.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Riordan Private Estate

  Lower Whitecraigs, Edinburgh—Scotland

  Three years and Two Months Prior

  This madness was not his life. Music blared over the pumping moans of tired women and pounding flesh as noses snorted up the cocaine cut on various flat surfaces throughout the house.

  Rory was in high spirits tonight. He’d learned of a new drug lord, and sent Callan to invade their operation. The product he’d pilfered had been put to hard use, and everyone was blown out of their fucking minds except for him, Innis, Rhys, and the baby.

  The work was gettin’ sloppy. Not on his part, but on the parts of others.

  Rory took so many drugs he rarely slept, which left everyone else walking on eggshells and forced to stay awake for his entertainment. Exhaustion made people stupid, and the careless injuries around the house seemed to double of late.

  They were all tense. Even Rhys had abandoned the safe haven of Innis’s room to keep an extra set of eyes on things.

  Daylight poured through the windows. They’d been at it for hours, no end in sight.

  Vapid shifts of tired conversation and delusional bouts of laughter set the wild tempo of the room. Up and down. Never a placid moment of silence.

  The wain toddled through the house, pulling at Innis’s clothes, shuffled away by Rhys. It had been weeks since Rory separated the two, but the lesson had left an impression, one Innis was careful not to forget.

  Rory wanted Innis in his sight during waking hours. And whenever she was in his presence, her mask remained unmovable, even if the baby needed something. That’s where Rhys came in handy.

  But he wished Rhys would get the child out of here. It shouldnae have to see its mother so dehumanized. And Innis’s silence likely confused it.

  Uma.

  Every once in a while, despite his efforts to ignore the obvious, her name slipped through his mind like a lost poem, fragile and small, but immensely meaningful.

  He dinnae want to see the similarities, dinnae want to notice the precious way she had his sister’s ebony waves or the way her giggles sang like music of lost years, so similar to the way Innis used to laugh when she was that age—when she’d been happy.

  He dinnae want to recognize his best friend’s features mingled with his sister’s in the face of such innocence. But it was all there.

  One glance at her faultless, wee face and he was lost. She was the seedling of life and purity that pushed through the cinders of ruin. She toddled around in such contrast to her surroundings. He understood why she should be hidden away.

  She was the reason, during the dwindling hours of the day, when the uproarious guests could only slur their words and sway, he forced himself to stay awake. Rhys was the heart and Innis the sturdy shield, but Callan took it upon himself to be her sword. And he’d destroy anyone who harmed a single hair on the wee angel’s body.

  He hid his interest in the child, even from himself at times, because Rory could sniff out a lie like a starving dog could scent a freshly grilled steak. So long as Rory assumed him indifferent, the man couldnae use Uma against him. But the moment he realized Callan cared for the wain, Rory’s interest would change into something dangerous.

  “I feel like a game,” Rory announced, staggering to his feet. “We need something te liven up this party. You there.” He leaned forward and squinted. “Hamish. Fetch me a drink and my pistol.”

  Rory couldnae resist poking his finger in a tender wound. The temptation to make someone squirm called to him in moments of stillness. Callan felt the room tighten as if holding its collective breath, fearful of what might unfold. No one was safe.

  Callan watched the room with sharp eyes, counting heads and hands, noting each person’s degree of sobriety and calculating the overwhelming amount of drugs and empty bottles of alcohol.

  Uma babbled as she worked the square corner o
f a block into a round hole on one of those cube puzzles toddlers enjoyed. She played on the floor. So long as she remained quiet, she was overlooked, but as her frustration with the block climbed so did her volume.

  No one dared to quiet her, as that would only draw more attention to the child banging the plastic blocks in the corner. But Rhys saw her, and his concern matched Callan’s.

  Hamish returned and handed Rory a cocktail and a revolver. He sipped, sloshing the ice as he tipped back the glass. Dragging the back of his arm over his mouth, he emptied the bullets onto the table.

  Several rolled to the floor. The chatter quieted. Everyone wore the same mask of pretended indifference, but not a single gaze left Rory since that gun appeared.

  Rory equated attention with affection. So long as he remained center stage, he was satisfied, and he’d stop at nothing to keep the focus on him.

  Violence came like first nature, whereas generosity or kindness would always be foreign concepts to him. His loyal subject’s obedience kept him pleasant, but sometimes, even at his most pleasant moments, he got bored.

  He slid a single bullet into the gun and shut the chamber with a click that penetrated the pulsing music.

  “Who wants te play?” He spun the chamber, the rolling tick-tick-tick-tick too fast to know where the bullet hid. “Trinket?”

  His sister’s head twitched, her evident tension a testament to her fear. But she dinnae utter a word.

  Rory clicked his fingers. “Come here.”

  The music lowered. Innis’s hands pushed at the table, backing up her chair as she slowly stood.

  Callan sensed her desire to look back at Uma, but she wouldnae dare. Even if this was her last chance to look in her child’s eyes, she’d never risk alerting Rory to her daughter’s presence.

  Callan’s discreet focus ricocheted between Uma, Innis, and the gun. Rhys’s glare locked on the back of Rory’s head as he stood behind him in the open doorway.

  She approached Rory’s side, her gaze lowering to the gun. The delicate feathers adorning her dressing gown trembled, the only tell of her nerves.