Chapter 2 #2
“Are you both done acting like children?” James growls, his voice cold and sharp.
Callum mutters something under his breath, but James silences him with a glare.
“I told you last night as well that I am not on board with this girl living with us!” Callum defends his stance.
“And I also told you that I will keep her here for as long as I want to!” James roars at Callum.
“Great job, guys. Please, continue as our men watch their leaders bicker like children!” James turns around and all the eavesdropping people begin to leave.
“I’ve told both of you that she will be with us till her arm heals.
This was our carelessness, and letting her go would be even more foolish,” James declares, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“After that, we’ll figure out what to do with her.
But, for now, I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it. Clear?”
Callum doesn’t respond, his dark eyes locked on me like he’s daring me to push him again.
“Clear?” James repeats, his voice louder this time.
“Yeah, fine,” Callum mutters, turning on his heel and storming out of the kitchen.
James turns to me next, his expression softer but still firm. “Hunter.”
I don’t answer, crossing my arms and leaning back against the counter.
“Don’t let this become a problem,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You made the call, and we’re sticking with it—for now. But if this turns into something bigger, you’re the one who’s going to clean it up. Not me. Not Callum. You.”
I nod, but the weight of his words settles heavily in my chest. James gives me one last look before leaving, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
As the two of them leave, I slump back onto the kitchen counter.
Why am I digging a deeper and deeper grave for myself… for this girl?
I turn to look outside the kitchen and see that Lina has come downstairs. I watch her practically wobble into the hall, staggering and barely left with any energy.
Thinking that she’ll fall, I rush up to her side and hold her by the arm.
“Here.” I offer my arm to her for support. She stares at it like I’ve offered her a cyanide pill. Reluctantly taking my arm, I gently guide her to the sofas in the hall.
“You need to change your bandage,” I tell her, gently lifting her arm and seeing that the bandage has frayed in some areas.
She’s startled by the sudden touches, her hazel eyes snapping up to meet mine. For a moment, she looks terrified. Her eyes are filled with an innocence that doesn’t belong in this world, and I feel a pang of guilt in my chest for dragging her into this mess.
Maybe Callum is right. Maybe she shouldn’t be here.
“I can handle it,” she says quickly, pulling her arm away.
And then, this strong act of hers reminds me she may not be as innocent as I think. Maybe she can survive in this world. After all, who talks to an armed man like this?
“Doesn’t look like it,” I reply, nudging her to sit on the couch. “Let me.”
She opens her mouth to argue but closes it just as quickly, her shoulders sagging in reluctant defeat. She shifts slightly on the sofa, making room for me.
“Get me the first aid!” I yell, alarming her. One of our men comes rushing into the hall and gives me the kit with a fresh pack of bandages.
I grab the first aid kit from his hands, pulling out fresh gauze and antiseptic. Sitting beside her, I can feel her tension, like a tightly coiled spring.
“This is going to sting a little. Hold tight,” I warn, soaking a cotton pad in the antiseptic.
“Probably not more than actually being shot,” she retorts, biting her lip.
I gently take her arm. Her skin is soft, warmer than I expected, and I do my best to ignore the way her breath catches when my fingers brush against hers.
She flinches as I press the cotton pad to the wound and a hiss escapes her lips.
“Sorry,” I murmur, “Just a little more.”
“You don’t have to do this,” she says after a moment, her tone quieter now.
“Yeah, I do,” I assure her.
“Why? Why are you being so kind to me?” she asks, her tone rather annoyed.
The question catches me off guard. I glance up, meeting her eyes. There’s no anger there, no defiance—just curiosity.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I say finally, focusing back on the wound.
She lets out a soft laugh, though it’s more bitter than amused. “Try to explain a little, then.”
I don’t answer, partly because I don’t have one. I don’t know why I’m here, why I can’t seem to walk away from her.
All I know is that the sight of her bleeding in that café set a fire inside me that I cannot explain to her in words.
Her voice pulls me back to the moment. “You’re... not like them, are you?”
I pause, the gauze halfway wrapped around her arm. “What do you mean?”
“The other two,” she says, her gaze flicking toward the door as if expecting Callum or James to burst in at any moment. “They seem harder. Colder.”
“We are all… different,” I reply, finishing the bandage. “Their words are harsher but they are kind people as well.”
It’s true. All three of us are very different. If Callum and James didn’t want her here—if they didn’t see why she needed our help and protection—they would have killed her right there. But they didn’t.
“But you’re all bad people. Part of some underground mafia group.”
I chuckle, though there’s no humor in it. “I didn’t say we aren’t.”
She doesn’t press further, and I’m grateful. Instead, she watches as I secure the bandage with careful precision. When I finally sit back, she flexes her fingers experimentally, wincing slightly.
“It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold. I can’t really take you out to some professional right now,” I say.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with something I can’t quite name. I glance at her, and for the first time, I notice the faint freckles dusting her cheeks, and the way her dark hair frames her face in loose waves.
“You should eat something and get some energy,” I say, standing and taking a step back.
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes searching mine. “When can I leave?”
The question stops me in my tracks. I should have an answer—a clear, logical explanation—but the words won’t come.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally.
Her lips part as if she’s about to say something, but she hesitates. Instead, she leans back against the back of the sofa, still looking at me.
“Get her some food,” I say to the men and they immediately rush to the kitchen.
“Hunter?” she calls softly, stopping me in my tracks again as I am about to leave.
I glance back; the vulnerability in her eyes feels like a punch to the gut. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”