Chapter 25 Callum
CALLUM
I'm still tasting her when Zaria tightens her grip on my arm and whispers to me.
The heat, fear, want, everything tangled together so tightly I don't know where one ends and the other begins. My pulse is still roaring in my ears, my body still primed from the kiss, from her mouth opening under mine, from the way she melted into me like she'd been waiting for it.
I turn to follow her gaze behind me to a man who slips out of the main chamber and into a corridor to the left, his robe darker than the others, his steps unhurried, like he belongs anywhere he wants to be.
Brother George.
The man who switched my father's IV. Who stood in that hospital room and poisoned him while he slept.
My blood turns to ice, then fire.
The man who murdered my father dies tonight.
Right here. Right now.
There is no hesitation, no doubt, and no second thoughts.
I turn back to Zaria, my hand still gripping her waist. "Go to the car," I say, keeping my voice low.
Her eyes widen behind her mask. "What? No, I'm not leaving you."
I scan the room and then look back at her. "Stay here, then."
I move to pull away, but her hand clamps down on my forearm.
"Wait." She glances around, then reaches into her robe and pulls out a dagger. She presses the handle into my hand. "A gun's too loud."
I stare at the weapon, then at her.
Two thoughts hit me at once.
First is that she had this the entire time. She could have used it on me at any moment she wanted, but she didn't.
Second, she's not just telling me where George is. She's arming me to kill him.
I nod, and so does she.
"Be careful," she says, then lets me go, and I pull away before I give myself time to think about what this makes us.
I tuck the dagger under my robe and slip into the crowd, weaving between people swaying to the chant. The smell of incense thickens, mixing with sweat and blood. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the voices around me.
I keep my head down, pace steady and casual, as my eyes track him.
He's about twenty feet ahead as he disappears through the corridor's entrance. I can't lose him, so I pick up my pace.
The hallway is darker than the main chamber, lit only by scattered candles mounted on the walls.
Brother George walks ahead of me, unaware, his steps echoing softly.
He rounds a corner, and as I follow, my hand tightens around the handle of the dagger.
He turns slightly, like he senses something.
That's when I move.
I surge forward and slam into him, driving him into the wall.
My left hand clamps over his mouth as I drive the blade into the side of his neck.
"From the Killaneys," I whisper into his ear.
George's body jerks, his scream muffled against my palm. I yank the blade out and feel the hot spray of blood against my hand. I stab him again, same spot, deeper this time, twisting.
His legs buckle and he spasms, but I'm not done.
I pull the knife free and plunge it into his chest, right where his heart should be.
It's not clean. There's too much emotion for it.
I hold him as the life drains out of him, his body twitching against mine, his breath rattling in his throat until it doesn't anymore.
When he goes limp, I lower him to the ground slowly, carefully, so he doesn't make a sound.
The hallway is silent except for my own breathing.
I stare at him as blood pools beneath him. The man who killed my father is dead. Now there's just one person left.
I wipe the blade on his sleeve, slip the dagger back under my robe, and move quickly, retracing my steps. The chanting is louder now, the crowd swaying as the ritual reaches some kind of crescendo.
I find Zaria right where I left her. She turns when she sees me, her eyes searching my face.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing her hand.
She tries to stop me, but I don't let her this time. I pull her with me, weaving through the crowd, back toward the way we came in.
We walk down the same hall we walked through when we first arrived, and I see her looking around frantically.
We almost make it, but the same guard who put the sticker on my shoulder earlier appears.
"Sorry," he says, blocking the door. "No one can leave now."
Then he steps forward and grabs Zaria's arm, yanking her toward him. "And you should know better than to let your guest leave early."
"Get off of me," she says, trying to pull away.
"You'll be punished for—"
I see red, and before I can think I lift my arm, not letting him finish.
I drive the same dagger I used on Brother George straight into his left eye.
"Don't you fucking touch her," I growl as blood sprays across his face and he drops to his knees.
I push on the handle, and he collapses to the ground.
I leave the blade in him this time and grab Zaria's hand.
"Come on."
We burst through the door into the cold night air. We tear off our robes and masks as we walk fast toward the car, tossing them to the ground.
We hop into the car, and I hit the gas, tearing out of the lot and onto the main road. The warehouse disappears in the rearview mirror.
My hands are firm on the steering wheel. The rush from the kill collides with the memory of her mouth, her body pressed into mine.
It's all tangled together, and I don't know which one is making my heart pound harder.
Zaria sits beside me, silent, her hands folded in her lap. She's staring straight ahead, her face pale in the glow of the dashboard lights.
After a few miles, I pull over onto a side road and kill the engine.
The silence is deafening.
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
"Is Brother George..." she starts, her voice low.
"Yeah," I say. "He's dead too."
She exhales slowly, her shoulders sagging like she's been holding her breath this entire time.
I turn to look at her, and the realization hits me again. She made it all possible.
And I don't know if that should terrify me or turn me on, but right now, it's doing both.
"Did you know we'd have to do that?" I ask, my voice low.
"No." She shakes her head, her eyes flicking to mine. "The kiss?"
So it's on her mind too.
She knew exactly what I meant.
"No," she says again, quieter this time. "It's normally not like this, but it was the only way."
I stare at her, my jaw tight. I'm angry, not at her, but at the fact that I felt something. That I let myself feel something.
I'm losing control with her.
I hate that I wanted to keep kissing her even after the cloth was gone, even after the guard moved on.
I hate that I still want to.
Her lips are full and soft from my kiss, and I can't stop staring at them.
She shifts in her seat, her hands twisting in her lap.
"Sorry you had to see me kill someone," I say. "That kind of thing bothers most people."
She looks over at me.
"I'm not most people."
No. She's not.
Most people don't survive what she's survived. Most people don't walk back into the place that tortured them just to help a man they barely know get revenge.
Most people don't kiss like she did.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
I should let it go. I should start the car and drive us back to the estate and lock her in that room and forget this ever happened.
But I know I'm not going to do that.
Instead, I start the engine and pull back onto the road.
I don't tell her what she is to me now.
I only know one thing with absolute certainty.
Whatever this is, whatever line I crossed tonight, no one else is touching her.
And I've already decided she isn't going anywhere, whether she knows it yet or not.