58
My Wife
Callum
Callum ushered Rumi away from the horrors, scarlet ribbons dribbling down his chest, weeping from his shoulder.
Blood stained her new white gown in gruesome strokes of crimson.
Was it hers? His? His head swam, lightheaded and dizzy already.
Sparks floated in his eyes. Fuck.
Once they were inside the room, he slammed the door closed and leaned against it.
She looked at him.
Through him.
“Hey,”
he whispered, cupping her face, her skin soft beneath his calloused fingers.
“Are you all right?”
Her lashes shuttered over her eyes and he bent and kissed each one, surprised when his lips came away wet with tears.
“I am sorry,”
she rasped.
“I could not…and you are hurt.”
“Shh, shh,”
he pulled her in closer and curled around her as tears carved silvery trails down her cheeks.
He’d beat the shit out of Sullivan all over again just for making her cry.
Her fingers brushed at her cheeks and he folded his hands around both of hers, holding them as if they were a delicate bird.
“Don’t fret.
You needn’t worry about him anymore, and all is well.
You’re on your way home to your people and only a little worse for wear.”
His lips grazed over hers, and he sealed his sentiment with a kiss.
Slowly, his kiss warmed, becoming deeper, a wordless expression of all-consuming devotion to her.
“I’m here, my wife,”
he whispered between kisses.
“My love.”
He pressed another kiss to her forehead and set her on the bed, cupping her cheek in his hand.
“I’ll return.
I need to take care of that mess out there, but I’ll be right back.
Stay here.
Rest, okay?”
For once, she didn’t argue with him, her eyes still wide with fear, blood speckling her dress.
“I’ll be right back,”
he assured again, stealing yet another kiss before slipping out the door.
He locked it behind him, not to keep her in but to slow down anyone else who might try to get to her.
He was just fucking glad most everyone was sleeping off hangovers.
Most likely no one above deck had heard the scuffle.
He looked down at Sullivan in disgust, the plants still wrapped tightly around him so tightly his fingers were turning purple.
The son of a bitch was just coming to. Perfect.
Callum knelt down beside the man who had tormented his love, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and hand.
This was the man who had caused the scars on her back and wounds in her side, the haunted look in her eyes when she woke from a nightmare.
When Sullivan’s eyes focused on Cal, the prone man sneered.
“Ah, you’re awake. Good.”
He picked up Sullivan by the lapels of his coat and dragged him into an empty closet, the vines breaking off the floor and trailing after them as Cal hefted the other man.
Sullivan opened his mouth, possibly to shout for help, but Callum grabbed the scarf Sullivan wore around his neck, shoving it into the man’s mouth as he continued to drag him into the large closet.
He turned to Sullivan after closing the door behind himself and isolating the majority of the evidence of their scuffle to the small room.
Sullivan managed to spit the scarf out of his mouth, part of it still wrapped around his collar, the muscles in his neck straining as he glared at Cal.
“What now, Callum? Are you gonna kill me?”
Callum stayed by the door, listening to make sure no one was coming.
“If I had just a moment more time, I would be doing much worse than that.”
Sullivan spat to the side, a sheen of blood on his teeth as he grinned.
“Goody-two-shoes Callum who never breaks any rules? You’ll be hanged when they find out what you’ve done.
You traitor.”
“Traitor?”
Callum repeated softly as he closed his eyes, Barlow’s face floating behind his eyelids, followed by Fynten’s.
“I’d be in good company then, wouldn’t I?”
He closed the space between them with two steps and tugged his knife from its sheath, letting it glint in the meager light, blood from his injury making the handle slick.
Sullivan stuttered, his crazed eyes glued to the blade.
“She told you not to kill me!”
“Yeah, she did.
But, as you’ve just established, I don’t follow rules anymore.”
Cal’s lips twisted into a cold smile as the knife pressed into Sullivan’s neck.
The man swallowed and the blade bit into his skin, creating a line of red.
“She would never do it.
She’s good, you see.
A light in a world filled with monsters.
Certainly too good for the likes of me, and yet, that woman in there loves me. So I will do what she won’t, because she is good. I’ll be her hand of justice. I’ll be her monster.”
Crimson gushed over his hands as he slashed the knife across Sullivan’s throat, cutting off the man’s objections, which quickly turned into a gruesome gurgle.
Cal watched the light fade from his grey eyes with grim satisfaction, a reaper come to claim his soul.
When Sullivan finally sank against the wall, unmoving, Callum wiped his hands and the blade on the dead man’s clothes and then shut the closet, leaving him there to rot.
He turned away from the door, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.
Willing his anger, his violence back down to the darkest depths of himself.
Then he opened his eyes again.
He returned to their suite and knocked on the door, listening for her reply before unlocking it and slipping inside.
Rumi was there in an instant, wrapping her arms around him.
As they parted, her voice shook slightly as she asked, looking him in the eyes, “Did someone come to take Sullivan away? Is he in prison?”
Callum cupped her cheeks, looking into her eyes as he said, “Let me worry about him.
I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”
Rumi searched his face, her eyes jumping between his before sliding down his chest, noting the injuries.
“You are bleeding. Badly.”
She turned his hand over in her palm, the blood still weeping from the gash.
Now that the adrenaline was fading, the pain was shoving its way to the forefront of his mind.
“I just need a kiss to make it better,”
he joked, ignoring the pain of each breath.
“I can heal you,”
she suggested, her lashes covering her eyes.
His eyes narrowed.
“I’ve been stabbed, shot, lost a lot of blood during our time together and you only just now tell me that you can fix it?”
Shock more than anger marred his voice.
The sliver of anger dissipated entirely when her shy admonition made his heart flip—the damn, wretched thing.
“It is an intimate thing not often done.
Especially not shared with humans.”
“But you would do it for me?”
She tucked her bottom lip beneath her teeth, and again, the urge to kiss it raged in his blood.
This time he heeded it with a gentleness, a warmth that he hoped spoke of the depths of his feelings for her.
“I like being intimate with you,”
she admitted breathlessly, her lips moving against his.
She twirled his hair around her fingers and he wondered why he’d kept it short all this time when it felt so good to have her hands in it.
“Thank the gods.”
A grin stole over his face.
“I thought it was just me.”