Chapter 14 Callum
CALLUM
Ilock her door and my hand lingers on the handle.
I force myself to turn away and walk down the hall toward my office.
The image will not leave.
Her standing there, naked. Arms at her sides, eyes on the floor, like she was waiting for inspection.
I walk into my office and shut the door behind me.
I rub my forehead, fingers pressing firmly against my skin.
What the fuck was that?
I pace between the window and the desk, every jaw muscle twitching.
I can still see her.
The M burned into her forearm. The thin scars along her ribs, too precise to be accidental. Ritual cuts, probably. Small circular burns on her shoulder and stomach that I am pretty sure are cigarette burns.
And her frame is so thin I could count her ribs.
I stop mid-step and brace my hands on the edge of my desk, head hanging.
My stomach churns.
What kind of father does that to his own blood?
Cormac Donoghue does. That is the answer. The same man who orchestrated my father's murder. The same man who branded Keira and built a cult in the ashes of his burned childhood home.
Every time I blink I see Zaria standing there offering herself like a commodity. Women I have been with strip from desire or from confidence. Sometimes from fear, sure. It is the life we live, and women know what they are getting into with me. I do not pretend otherwise.
But she did not strip like that.
She stripped like she expected to be used and discarded. Like she had a script in her head. Kindness goes in. Body comes out. End of equation.
Cormac did not just hurt her. He erased her. Hollowed her out and filled the space with obedience and self-loathing.
I push off the desk and resume pacing. I stop at the window and stare out into the night.
I hated seeing her body like that.
I think about it and shake my head.
And why the hell should I care? It is not my job to fix her.
But Jesus Christ.
If this is what Cormac does to his own blood, what the hell has he done to everyone else in his little cult?
I pull out my phone and pull up the delivery app and scroll through the list of pizza places. I find the best one in the city, the place that charges too much and delivers too slow but makes everything from scratch.
Hawaiian. Premium toppings.
I add it to the cart and pause, staring at the screen.
This is not kindness.
It is logistics.
She is too damn thin, basically malnourished. I need her alive long enough to talk. To get everything she knows. A dead informant is useless.
I repeat it in my head.
I hit order on the screen.
Why do I not believe my reasons?
I watch the confirmation screen pop up and lock my phone.
It buzzes in my hand and I glance at the screen, thinking it is a confirmation or something.
Shit. The meeting. Why I left in the first place.
One of our suppliers was caught selling our stuff for a little side profit. Harmless to our operation in terms of money lost, but we cannot allow that to go unnoticed. It will spark others to do it too, and I cannot have that.
It is the perfect kind of bullshit that requires my full attention and a clear head.
I grab my coat off the back of the chair and shrug it on.
One last glance at the ceiling, toward the East Wing.
Toward the room where she is locked up.
I mentally curse myself for thinking about her again.
She is a source, that is all.
I button my coat and head for the door.
I can still see her face. The way she looked at me when I covered her up. Confused. Like she did not understand why I would not take what she was offering.
Like no one had ever said no before.
I yank the door open and step into the hall.
The pizza will be here in an hour. Tommy will bring it up to her. She will eat. She will survive another day.
And tomorrow, I will sit her down and extract every piece of intel she has.
That is the plan.
That is all this is.
I head down the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the quiet house.
She is my enemy's daughter.
Someone who will sell herself for a meal. Getting intel from her will be easy, sure. But why do I feel like this will be a lot more complicated than I originally thought?