Page 11 of Callum

She looks beautiful.

“Did you really have to needle spike her?”

“Yes.”

Lachlan’s sigh is long-suffering, his face clearly reflecting his disapproval of my methods. When he texted me that Rosalind was in my home, I was convinced she would go snooping the moment he left, but she hadn’t. The cameras showed her sitting at the table, slowly bleeding out, with a kitchen knife stuffed in her shoe as if her life depended on it being within reach.

It probably does.

“What even is this?” I hold up the empty syringe, directing his attention away from my motives for drugging Rosalind. The last thing I want is to spend the rest of the evening explaining that I lost control.

Lachlan grumbles something under his breath, his eyes trained on the cuts lining Rosalind’s arms and face. I see the moment the dots connect, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s Rohypnol.”

“What the fuck?” I stare at the syringe, quickly calculating how much I just gave her. “Why do you have a syringe of Rohypnol in your bag?”

“It’s surprisingly useful,” he shrugs, stepping over Rosalind’s limp arm on his way toward the kitchen. Realizing I’m still pinning her to the ground with my hips, I scramble to my feet.

“Are you hurt?” A trail of fresh red droplets catches my attention, the line of them following my brother into the kitchen. It’s definitely blood, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Lachlan is dripping someone else’s blood all over my house.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t bleed like that,” I nod toward the dark substance trailing from the end of his fingers as I bend to scoop Rosalind into my arms. She’s too light. I noticed it when she was on my lap, but it’s even more pronounced now.

Her skin is filthy, though her hair and nails seem to be healthy enough. The soft black dress she’s wearing is too big, and someone hastily wrapped her shin in what looks like an old sweatshirt.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have touched her. I definitely shouldn’t have fucked her. Dammit, MacAlister. What the Hell is wrong with you? You’re a goddamn Doctor. You know better than to fuck a prostitute bare.

Laying her across the kitchen table, I gently peel back one edge of the blood-soaked material. “Jesus fucking Christ. Who did this to her?”

Lachlan scrunches his face in sympathy as he looks at the botched attempt to suture Rosalind’s leg closed. “The GiGi’s.”

“The GiGi’s cut her up? Or they humpty-dumpty’d her leg back together? Because whoever did this,” I point to the sewing needle sticking out at the top of the laceration. “Deserves to be shot.”

Lachlan shrugs, his guess being as good as mine. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten around to asking Rosalind about the extent of her injuries earlier. I refuse to let my thoughts linger on what might have distracted them from that conversation.

Sliding the oversized dress off her pliant body is more difficult than anticipated, but I get it off without having to cut anything apart. I leave her bra and underwear on, though I have to drop the dress across her lap to hide the fact that my cum is leaking out of her. Jesus, I hate how possessive that sight makes me feel.

Lachlan lets out an amused snort, but I ignore him, choosing to catalog the hits to her body instead. She has dirty makeshift bandages on her neck and arms, and her ribs are a nasty shade of purple. I carefully begin to remove the bandages to assess the damage beneath.

That’s when my eyes catch on a scar lining the bottom of Rosalind’s stomach. It’s about five inches long, right at the base of her abdomen.

It’s a C-section scar.

Rosalind had a baby.

How did I miss that? Maybe because your version of catching up on the last four years was putting your dick in her ass.

Ignoring that particular oversight, I stare down at the scar on Rosalind’s stomach. Questions start flooding my mind, tumbling over one another without allowing time for me to come up with any answers. When did she have a baby? Why did she have a C-section? How did I not know about this? Where is the kid now?

Who is the father?

“Fucking hell.” My eyes meet Lachlan’s at his muttered curse, but he isn’t looking at the obvious signs of childbirth on Rosalind’s body. He hasn’t traced the stretch marks along her sides with his eyes. He doesn’t see the flare of her hip bones.

Lachlan is staring at the spot on Rosalind’s neck that is now covered in a fresh burn. The edges are charred and jagged, her once soft skin now a mangled mess.

Instead of spiraling, I force myself to focus on the things that need to be fixed in the here and now. Rosalind has to live through these injuries for me to demand answers from her.

And I will get my answers.

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