Page 57 of Callum

“Don’t ask,” she huffs, crossing both arms over her damn-near-naked chest.

Shrugging the wool coat off my shoulders, I place it carefully on the back of the couch, making sure not to set it on any fresh blood. I’ve got my holster off and the first three buttons of my shirt undone by the time Rosalind speaks again.

“Odd time for a strip tease.”

I can’t help my snort of laughter, but I cover it with a scowl in her direction as I undo my cufflinks. The moment the fabric is loose enough to pull over my hands, I yank the shirt off, balling it up and tossing it at Rosalind.

It hits her in the face before falling to the ground at her feet.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“Put it on.”

“What? Why?”

“Enough questions,” I snap, annoyed that I don’t have a good answer for her. I just need her to cover up. “Put the damn shirt on.”

“I live here,” she grumbles, swooping down to snatch the shirt off the ground. “I could put on my own clothes.”

Yes, you could, but you’re going to wear mine.

She slips the shirt over her shoulders, leaving it open down the front, and I realize just how grievously I have miscalculated this. “Button it up.”

“Callum, I don’t take orders from—”

“Button it up, or I’ll be forced to kill whichever asshole is about to burst through the front door,” I step into her space, jerking each side of the button up toward the center of her body. “If you make me kill two of my men in one day, there will be Hell to pay.”

“What kind of Hell?” She leans forward, intentionally brushing our lips together in a near kiss.

“The kind that starts with you begging for mercy,” I sway into her, my knuckles brushing against her bare stomach as I begin to button the shirt. “And ends with you drowning in your own fucking blood.”

I can’t help the menacing grin spreading across my face as I step away from her, satisfied that the shirt will cover enough of her body to keep me from wanting to maul her again.

“Now be a good girl and clean up your mess, Red.”

Her spluttering shock lasts long enough for me to grab my holster and get to the kitchen, my back still toward her as I dig through the fridge for anything containing alcohol. I find an old six-pack in the very back, the bottles frosted over with time. Needs must, I suppose.

“How the fuck am I supposed to clean this up?”

She’s got a good point. This Safe House is a study in beige, and I just cannon-blasted deep red blood over half of the living space. There’s no way she’ll ever get his brains out of the ancient off-white carpet.

That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy watching her try.

“Figure it out, Red.” I smile brightly at her over my shoulder, moving to snap the tops off the two beers in my hand.

Like clockwork, the front door opens, and Lachlan peeks his head around the corner. “Is it safe?”

I snort at the idea of any place on this planet being safe with him in it. “Come in, dickhead. Didn’t think you’d have to make good on that promise so soon, huh?”

Lachlan looks over the back of the couch, his eyes locked on the dead man in the middle of the living room floor. “I told you I’d help, but damn. Didn’t think you’d get him with his pants down.”

“Fucker,” I grunt, taking a long pull from my beer. I gesture toward Lachlan with the second bottle I’ve liberated from the back of the refrigerator. He gives me an odd look when he takes it from my hand but doesn’t question it when I tap the neck of my beer against the bottom of his.

We drink in silence for a few minutes, my eyes locked on Rosalind as she attempts to remove Bishop’s body from the pool of blood without making the mess worse. She is woefully unsuccessful, and I catch myself smiling at her struggle.

“Really going for the Wife-Pleaser look, huh?”

“What?” My eyes cut to Lachlan for a brief moment before snapping back to Rosalind as she bends over to dig her hands under Bishop’s armpits. He moves about two inches before she gives up with a huff.

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