Page 1 of Callum

Prologue: Four Years Ago

CALLUM

“Over my dead body.”

Don’t threaten me with a good time. Turning to face the man standing at the dining room entrance, I force a smile over bared teeth. The Father’s presence fills the room, his disappointed gaze stamping out any joy lingering in the air.

“Sir?” The massive double doors swing shut behind him with a snap. We watch one another for a long moment, father and son, like two sides of the same coin.

“You will not marry an Outsider.”

“She isn’t an Outsider,” I huff, barely biting back the urge to add “you miserable twat” to the end of my sentence. “And I’m not asking for permission.”

The Father’s stiff leather shoes squeak against the marble floors, the sound grating over my nerves as he moves through the space. Casually unbuttoning the jacket of his signature charcoal three-piece suit, he sinks into his seat at the head of the table.

What a pretentious asshole.

The Father cocks his head to one side, obsidian eyes tracing my body as if searching for a crack in my armor. The old crow can look all he wants; I never built false protections around myself. Not like him, with those suits he wears like pseudo-Kevlar.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were in charge here.” The Father’s tone is level, but I can see fury burning beneath his skin as those lifeless eyes find mine again. His face may be wrinkled, and the hair on his temples long past going gray, but his eyes will always remain the same.

Vicious.

“Forgive me. I wasn’t trying to imply that I am in charge, sir.”

“I should hope not,” the Father smiles, teeth flashing in the dim light of the chandelier. The ancient crystal monstrosity hangs low over the twenty-foot black oak table, but it does little to brighten a space designed for darkness. This is the primary meeting place for MacAlister Family Business, and the horrors spoken within these walls have infiltrated every surface. The weight of wars waged and lives lost dampen any brightness that might have once been.

Nothing a fresh coat of paint couldn’t handle, but the prehistoric prick would rather keel over than update something. Unfortunately, he has yet to actually keel over, despite the efforts of many.

“Fa–”

“You will not marry her.”

The muscle in my jaw ticks as I grind my teeth together. The Father has always thought of himself as the be-all-end-all, but the reality is that he’s just a power-hungry nepo-baby in an unreasonably expensive suit. “You do not get to tell me—”

“Have you already forgotten?” The Father gestures to the spot where Maddock stands amongst our brothers. Maddock stiffens, his tattooed knuckles cracking from the force of his clenched fists.

“Of course, I haven’t forgotten,” I speak over the soft sounds of Merrick talking Maddock out of doing something stupid. There’s only room for one of us to be an idiot this evening, and I’m already filling that role.

“Then you know how much pain he avoided by not marrying that useless whore when she abandoned his newborn child. You want to risk that embarrassment with some glorified prostitute?”

“Whore?”

“Prostitute?” My voice mingles with Maddock’s, our outrage ringing off the flat black walls. I would put a bullet between the Father’s eyes here and now if I weren’t excruciatingly aware of the consequences. “You will not speak about my future wife like that.”

“Well then,” he rubs one ring-covered hand along his chin, subtly flashing the Crown in my face as if to remind me of my place in this Family. The Father’s smile is sickeningly sweet and so obviously fake that I want to cut it off his fucking face. “It’s a good thing she isn’t your future anything, son.”

His gaze drifts across each of my brothers, and I see the moment his eyes catch on Lachlan standing in the corner with some poor fuck’s blood splattered across his white dress shirt. The Father’s lip curls in disgust as his youngest son lazily flips a knife into the air, catching it by the blade each time gravity drops it back into his hand.

“Come, Callum. You’re not stupid.” The Father intentionally continues watching Lachlan, and my blood boils. Lachlan is twice as bright as me and ten times as conniving; our Father would do well to remember that. “You can marry when you find a nice Loyal girl.”

The way he says “loyal” as if it has a capital L and a world of meaning settles uncomfortably in my gut. “No.”

“Callum,” Grant’s tone brooks no argument, but I ignore it, preparing to give the Father a piece of my mind. I know Grant wants us all to hold our tongues, to stay in place and ride out the storm, but I’m so fucking tired of being the one who does what he’s told all the time. My mouth is barely open when the Father speaks again, stopping me in my tracks.

“Don’t make me kill her, too.”

My vision blurs, rage pressing in on the sides until all I can see is this manipulative old cunt using the woman I love against me. “You will not touch a single hair on her head.”

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