Chapter 15
POV: Callum
I pried one eye open at the sound of a too-familiar voice.
“Now, my dear, do I have this right? Rage is your husband?”
I cleared my throat, and Doc Mac snapped his mouth shut.
“Can you just check him?” Sorsha’s voice carried sharp annoyance. “He can’t breathe properly.”
She placed a mug of steaming liquid on the windowsill.
“Bruised ribs probably,” Mac said with a shrug. “But he’ll mend quick enough. No real need for me. It’s the bruises and split skin you’ll be tending.”
I pushed upright, teeth clenched, and glared at him.
“Thanks, Doc. You can go,” I gritted.
“No,” Sorsha countered, catching his sleeve. “Leave ointment so I can treat his wounds. I’ll pay you.”
“No, you won’t, the old bastard gets a stipend from…” I stopped cold.
Doc smirked, far too pleased, and handed Sorsha a jar filled with a brownish ointment that burned like fire on wounds.
“And a very good day to you,” Doc Mac grinned, closing the door with a forceful thud.
Sorsha glanced from the door to the ointment, then fixed those light-brown eyes on me.
“I don’t understand what’s going on, but everyone seems to know you were in a fight—and now they’re calling you Rage?”
I stayed silent, debating how to explain this. She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Take your shirt off.”
“Really, I’m okay.”
“You’re not. Take it off now, or I’ll do it for you.” Her tone hardened, but then she added softly, “I know how painful it is to be punched.”
And then I saw red!
My throat constricted, blood rushed through my veins, and I gritted urgently, “Is that hot water? If so, please make my tea now.”
“Um, I think—”
“Now,” I roared, barely holding myself together.
She jumped like a frightened rabbit, and the sight gutted me. I hated myself instantly. If I ever hurt her—if I became the reason she flinched—I would never forgive myself.
Clenching my teeth, I waited until she handed me the tea, trying not to picture her being struck. The thought alone sickened me. I downed it in one go, scalding my palate, as though I deserved the burn.
The rage ebbed slowly, along with the pain, leaving me hollow. My eyes found hers—the look on her face almost vindicated, as though she’d expected me to treat her like this all along.
“Sorry. The thought of someone punching you pushed me over the edge,” I said, trying to explain my actions, but she didn’t respond, and the weary look in her eyes twisted like a knife in my heart.
Swiveling, I sat up, feet on the floor, and pulled off my shirt. If she wanted to doctor me, I’d let her—especially after scaring her. I knew it was a little manipulative, but I’d take what I could get, even pity.
Her soft gasp had me glancing down at my bruised and lacerated chest.
“It’s okay, sweet thing. Just dab the ointment on and I’ll be fine in a few days,” I reassured her.
She stared at me, clutching the jar so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Better lie down,” she murmured.
I stretched out again and braced myself for the burn.
She dipped cotton into the ointment, sat beside me, and touched each wound with careful dabs. I held still, making sure not a single sound escaped me.
She doctored my hands, and once that was done, she stood and jerked her head. “Get up so I can see your back.”
“My back is fine.”
She pursed her lips, and I gave in, getting to my feet and turning for her inspection.
Of course, it wasn’t fine. I gritted my teeth and endured the fire as she worked.
She slipped around to face me and held the cotton swab up.
“Not the face.” I stepped back in trepidation.
“Okay,” she said softly, eyes dropping.
“Sorsha?” I tipped her face up. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. I will explain everything on the way home, okay? Did you get the rings?”
She nodded, but I knew this episode had pushed her away, and I had to come clean if we were to have any kind of relationship.
A knock on the door cut the tension.
“Delivery for Sullivan.”
“Coming,” I called back.
“Let’s go home.” I reached for her hand, but she pulled away immediately, and my heart sank.
Maybe I’d been stupid to think I could have a relationship. A wife…
She followed me down the stairs, and I called for the groom to bring Mabel and the cart. Aza was already waiting, impatient as always, and would be even more so when I told him he had to load.
As soon as the cart came into view, Sorsha rushed to Mabel’s side and petted her. She rubbed her face lovingly against the mare’s cheek, and the feeling of guilt deepened.
I had to make this right.
“Are you going to help me load?” Aza asked.
“Not today.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I suspected it and brought help.” A youngster stepped out, no older than sixteen, and the two of them loaded my order.
“Did you get everything on the list?”
“Yeah, yeah, but it would have been nice if you paid your respects to my mother.”
“Next time, I promise.”
Hanging the satchel on the cart pole, I paid Aza and nodded at Sorsha. “Ready?”
She grabbed the reins and spoke softly to Mabel. “You can do it, I know it’s heavy, but the cart is fixed.”
I kept glancing at her, but she refused to look at me, eyes locked on the road. We walked in silence until we passed the city gate. Then she turned, and there it was—the anger she’d been chewing on, finally breaking the surface.
“Explain,” she demanded.
“Okay.” Pulling Mabel to the side of the road, I pointed to a grassy knoll and grabbed the satchel. We hadn’t bought food, but the dried fruit would do.
I sat gingerly, and Sorsha followed, watching my every move. I tore open the three packets and set them between us.
“The men in my family all suffer from extreme anger—rage, really. We call it the Berserker, and when he takes over, we’re no longer in control. We can hurt the people around us—sometimes the ones we love most. When I’m in that state, you need to stay away from me. I never want to hurt you.”
She stared at me, a small frown on her face. “That’s why you drink the tea?”
“I knew you were clever. Yes—the tea keeps me calm.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Who did you fight, and why? And why does everyone call you Rage?”
Taking a deep breath, I plunged into an explanation.
“Years ago, before I found the tea, I needed an outlet. My father introduced me to the pit, an underground fighting arena, which I used regularly to let off steam and earned a fortune through it.”
I paused, gauging her reaction.
“Go on,” she prodded.
“Once I had the tea, I swore never to go back. But last night, the pit boss found me and offered double. After your recriminations about spending money, I figured if I won, I could give you the winnings—and you’d have something to fall back on if anything happened.”
“Happened? Like what?”
“Like if you wanted to leave me.” My voice cracked; the thought was unbearable.
She grabbed a prune and stared at me.
“You’re saying you fought to give me money I never asked for,” she paused and nibbled on the prune reflectively, then added. “So, I’m at fault because I’m cautious with money.”
She was right. It wasn’t her fault—it was mine. And truthfully, I’d wanted to fight.
“Point taken,” I said. “The money was an excuse. I’m sorry, really sorry.”
“You should be. I’m your wife, and there should be no secrets.”
Her answer took me by surprise. I had expected more recriminations.
“Does that mean you forgive me? That you won’t leave?” The words came out tight, my breath caught.
A beautiful smile bloomed across her face.
“I like being with you. But why Rage?”
“Because I rage, and I go by that name in the pit.”