Page 45 of Callum

“I’m sorry,” Callum’s hands are in my hair, and his forehead presses to mine. “I’m so sorry, kitten.”

“Don’t,” I want to bite the word at him, to press my anger into his skin with my teeth and nails, but I don’t have anything left. I just sound sad. “Do not give me your bullshit apologies.”

“Rosalind—”

“No, Callum.” I can’t breathe. He’s too close. “She didn’t look like us.”

“What?”

“I was expecting her to look like us, but her face was smooshed. I never got to see her eyes. I never even…” fuck, I can’t breathe. “I never named her.”

“You held her?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she…” his words trail off, and I’m not sure which of us he’s trying to be careful with. “Was she small?”

“No,” I almost laugh, the memory of her chubby cheeks hurting just a little less now. Then the nausea rolls through, my brain and body revolting against one another. It isn’t right to be able to feel anything but all-consuming pain when I couldn’t even bring her into the world properly.

“Breathe, Rosalind. You’re okay.”

It’s like my head is suddenly underwater, and someone has their hands inside my chest, squeezing my heart and lungs. My arms are heavy, and I can’t seem to take in enough air. Then the world tips on its side, and something digs into my wrist. Callum is moving around me, I can feel the heat of his chest and the soothing cadence of his voice.

“We’re gonna be okay, kitten.”

Twelve: At the Table

CALLUM

“We have a problem.”

We have several problems, all of which seem to begin and end with the woman sleeping in the room behind me, but I don’t point that out to him. “What is it?”

Grant sighs, the long-suffering sound of a man with the world on his shoulders. “The Father wants you at Family Dinner tonight.”

Shit. That’s a much bigger problem than whatever the fuck is going on between me and Rosalind. “Why?”

“Apparently, you acting on behalf of the MacAlister name but not coming to the Table is suspicious.”

My eyes roll so hard he can probably hear it through the phone, but I keep my tone as even as possible. “Great.”

Grant snorts out a laugh. “I have a plan, but it’s going to suck for all of us.”

If there’s one thing I can count on until my dying breath, it’s the fact that Grant MacAlister will always have a plan. “Tell me what I have to do.”

—

Rosalind is unusually pliant this morning.

She didn’t fight me when I insisted she needed to shower so we could change her bandages. Now, she’s sitting on the couch with her injured leg thrown across my lap, letting me carefully check the wound for infection.

It looks better than expected, but she isn’t out of the woods yet.

“We’ll have to start scrubbing your burn soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’re gonna hate me even more than you do now.”

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