Page 2 of Callum

“No, I won’t,” he agrees far too readily. “But your brothers will. If you choose to marry her, I will be forced to treat it as Treason. Do you remember what happens to traitors in my organization, Callum Stanislaus?”

The use of my middle name is intentional, forcing me to remember what happened to our mother. Her head hung on the wall for months, the stench nearly unbearable, but he left it there for all to see—for all to be reminded of what happens when you cross Mingus MacAlister.

The Father used to be the first to get his hands dirty, a violent killer in his own right, but something about killing her broke him. He lost all taste for blood and hasn’t gotten it back in the decade and a half since. Now, he simply sits on his throne, dusting imaginary lint off his pants while surveying all he reigns.

Glancing at my brothers’ grim expressions, it becomes clear that this is all there can be as long as the Father lives. He will always call the shots, and his five little ducklings will fall in line behind him.

Fuck that.

“I am marrying Rosalind, Father.” My tone is far colder than I expect it to be. The reality of my decision settles in my chest as I round on the shriveled-up testicle of a man, knowing this is going to change all of our lives. “I’m done.”

The Father snarls, slamming one hand down on the blackened tabletop hard enough to dent the centuries-old surface. “You are done when I say you are done!”

The cracks in his composure only fuel the fire building within me as I lift my right hand, where the silver ring of interlocking bones slides easily from my finger—almost as if it should never have been there at all. The Father’s eyes narrow, his gaze locked on me as I approach the youngest MacAlister. Lachlan straightens, steeling his spine for whatever comes next.

“You deserve this,” my hand grips the back of his neck, the closest I can get to hugging him without either of us taking our attention off the Father. “You always did, Lally.”

“You do not get to say how my Family—”

“My Family,” I correct, spinning toward the Father again. I’m surprised there isn’t steam rolling out of his ears with how cartoonishly red his face has gotten in his anger. “This is my Family, too. These are my Brothers, and you will never take that from me.”

Stepping forward, I place both hands on the table, looking down the worn and scarred surface until my gaze bores into the Father’s cold, dead eyes.

“Fuck you. I hope your death is long, painful, and sooner than later. For all our sakes.”

—

Rosalind answers the door in a whir of motion, bright red hair fanning out around her as she drags me into the house before slamming the door shut again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She sucks in a breath, pressing a blood-soaked cloth to one sharp cheekbone. Narrowed eyes remain locked on me, but I ignore her question as I catalog the damage to her face.

There is a deep purple bruise beneath her right eye, her normally red lips are devoid of color outside the jagged split in the center of her lower lip, and one cheek is bleeding profusely.

“What happened?” I step into her space instantly, unable to keep my distance when she’s injured. My hands slide through her long hair as I explore her scalp for lumps, making her huff angrily. She leans away from my prodding fingers, exposing the harsh pink double Gs burned into the side of her neck.

“I’m fine, Callum.”

“You’re bleeding,” I argue, holding up my fingers so she can see the blood I’ve wiped from her temple. When she doesn’t respond, I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me. “You’re not fine.”

Rosalind sighs, jerking her chin from my grasp. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be at my house during the day.”

My shoulders tighten as I step through her front door, slamming it shut with the back of my foot. That rule always pissed me off, and the feeling hasn’t changed with the knowledge that it won’t be necessary anymore. “Did she do this to you?”

Rosalind is very particular about what I can and cannot know about the GiGi’s, and anything involving Ginetta Ricci is strictly off-limits. Her eyes narrow at my question as she takes several steps away, putting as much distance between us as possible. “I’m not talking about GiGi Business with you, Callum.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“Yes, you did, and you know it.” Rosalind keeps those soft green eyes on me as she moves toward the kitchen.

“Let me help, kitten.” I try to inject some lightness into my tone, and she stops halfway down the hall, crossing both arms over her chest.

“I can patch myself up, Doc.” Rosalind snaps the words at me, her tone far harsher than normal. I guess we’re fighting it out today. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

I crowd my body into hers until she’s pinned to the wall beside the kitchen door. Gently, I bring one hand up to rest against her jaw, rubbing small circles into the muscle until I feel it unclench. My lips are inches from hers, breathing her air into my lungs. She needs a distraction, and I have the perfect thing. “Run away with me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she hisses, the fight burning hot in her eyes. That isn’t the reaction I expected, and instinct has my hand dropping to the base of her throat. “I can’t leave the GiGi’s.”

My middle finger runs along the raised flesh on the side of her neck—the brand marking her as someone else’s. I’ve always hated it. “Of course, you can.”

---