Chapter 25
Callum
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but me? I like it boiled—scaldin’ and bitter, brewed in the memory of his fuckin’ lips touchin’ her cheek. Talkin’ ‘bout babies, like she was some broodmare he could stake a claim to. The audacity of that gobshite.
He kissed her. My Seraphina. Whispered shite in her ear like she was his to dream about. And now? Now I can’t stop picturin’ her voice laced with laughter, babblin’ about wee ones—like she’d ever give a bastard like him the honor.
He doesn’t get to want her. Doesn’t get to imagine a future with her.
Not while I’m breathin’.
First thing’s first—I need eyes, ears, and a trail scrubbed so clean not even God himself could trace me.
I call Reaper.
The screen flickers. Black for a beat. Then a sharp buzz. Static. And finally that glitchy, high-pitched voice that always sounds half-sarcastic, half-bored.
“Well, if it isn’t Ireland’s favorite psychopath. You miss me, Callum? Or you just need a digital miracle again?”
Reaper’s face flickers in and out—genderless, ghostly, half in shadow. They’ve got a pink taxidermy rabbit hangin’ over their shoulder and a row of glass eyeballs lining the shelf behind ‘em.
“Need a location,” I grunt. “Damon Vale. Private event. I want cameras down, guards blind, and any digital trail I leave—gone before I make it.”
“Oh, a date night. Cute,” Reaper hums. “You want wine recommendations while I’m at it? Fine. Give me thirty. I’ll make his world disappear.”
Click. Connection dead.
Next up—Mara.
She answers on the second ring, deep voice laced with that always-simmering disinterest.
“Need a cleanup?”
“Aye,” I answer. “Tonight. No noise.”
“I’ll bring Ghost,” she says. “He’s been restless.”
“Good. He’ll like this one.”
“Text me the location when it’s done.”
No fluff. That’s why I keep her around.
Reaper sends the coordinates an hour later. Damon’s attending a private poker game hosted in an upscale suite at The Marlowe. Cameras? Down. Access logs? Falsified. I won’t exist by the time this night’s over .
I gear up slow. My old habits kick in—check the Glock, twice. Knife strapped to my thigh. Burner phone charged. Black gloves. Boots I can run in, kick in, or kill in.
All the while, her voice echoes in my skull.
“Babies, Callum. Can you imagine?”
She’s not afraid of my darkness. She fuckin’ kissed it. I’ll carve her safety into this world with my own hands.
The Marlowe.
I slip in dressed like I belong—blazer sharp, tie askew like I’ve been drinking all night. Guards glance but don’t question. Reaper rerouted the guest list—Damon’s expecting a late arrival named “Finnegan Cross.” Cute.
Upstairs. Room 914. I slide in when Damon excuses himself from the table to take a call. He steps into the adjoining lounge. Alone.
I follow.
He turns. Sees me. Still wearin’ that smug, inherited power on his lips.
“Who the hell—”
“Callum Devlin,” I cut in. “The man who watched ya press yer filthy mouth to what belongs to me. The man yer gonna die beggin’ in front of.”
His blood drains from his face.
“I—I didn’t know! No one told me she was with someone. Her dad—he didn’t—”
“She isn’t ‘with someone,’ ya pathetic shite,” I growl, stepping closer. “She’s mine. ”
He stumbles back a step, hand twitchin’ toward his belt.
“Go on, try it,” I sneer. “Let me give Reaper somethin’ fun to delete.”
He hesitates.
I continue, voice dark. "And it’s a shame, really. Bein’ in bed with Vex’s rivals like that. Bad optics, yeah? Good thing Dominic got the proof.”
His eyes widen. “W-what? I’m not—I never—”
“Not why I’m here.”
I grin slow. Vicious.
“I’m here ‘cause ye touched her. Kissed her. Threatened her. And now, yer gonna understand what consequence feels like.”
He opens his mouth again, some pitiful plea formulating, but I silence it with a step closer.
“You think you’re a man ‘cause ye whisper lies and hide behind daddies and deals. But if she ever married you? She would be the one wearin’ the crown. You’d be the limp cock at her heel. She’s more man than you’ll ever be ‘cause she is power. ”
The door creaks.
She enters.
Seraphina.
My girl .
Damon’s eyes blow wide.
She walks to my side, places a hand gentle on my shoulder. I feel her warmth seep through the fabric. I turn to her—softness in my rage—and she gives me that look. The one that says she chose this.
Then she steps forward.
Her expression? Utter disgust.
“I would cut your dick off before it even came out of your pants,” she spits. “I would never allow you or your sad excuse for genes to infect me.”
She pulls a blade from her boot. Raises it. Lets him see the glint.
And in one smooth, ruthless motion—slices clean across his throat.
He gurgles. Collapses. Eyes still wide with shock.
She turns to me.
Smiling.
"That’s my fuckin’ girl,” I whisper, awe flooding my voice.
And together, we watch him bleed.
Mara’s on her way.
Ghost’ll get a treat tonight.
And me?
I’ll sleep like a babe.
With my girl curled against me, knowin’ no one— no one —will ever touch her again.