Page 62 of Callum

I’m waiting for the ancient coffee pot to do its one and only fucking job when I hear it.

Knock, knock.

My heart rate spikes at the sound of someone banging on the front door, my gaze snapping immediately to the bedroom where Rosalind is now standing, her sleep-mussed hair a wild mess atop her head. The surprise on her face is undoubtedly mirrored in mine. Who the fuck is knocking on the front door?

Knock, knock.

I point two fingers at Rosalind, indicating she should stay where she is. Naturally, the insufferable brat ignores me completely, dropping into a crouch and skittering toward the living room.

“Goddammit.” I chase after her, scooping one arm around her waist before she can get in range of the front door. I doubt an enemy is knocking, but you can never be too careful.

Rosalind fights against my hold, silently shoving at my arms locked around her hips. She kicks me twice in the shin, and I bite back a frustrated grunt. That fucking hurts, and she knows it. Sharp nails dig into my forearm, and I give up on trying to hold her still. Her legs flail as I toss her body over the back of the couch before pulling my gun and taking the last few steps toward the front window.

I hear Rosalind moving behind me as I peek through the curtains. “Why the fuck are you knocking?”

“Didn’t want to walk in on anything,” Theo beams down at me as I throw open the front door, and I resist the urge to shoot him in the leg. “Grant said you wouldn’t be expecting me.”

“He called you?”

“He said you have Church this morning,” Theo looks at my paint-stained joggers and oversized t-shirt with evident judgment. “And that you’d need a babysitter.”

“Fuck you, Theo.” Rosalind snaps from somewhere behind me, and I see Theo’s grin grow impossibly wider.

“I’d rather not, but thank you, Miss White.”

“Eat a dick, then,” she grumbles from her spot perched on top of the cushions. Her legs swing against the back of the couch, utterly oblivious to the massive blood stain behind her.

“That’s not really my style,” Theo corrects, stepping around me to get into the house. I was so busy watching Rosalind avoid my gaze that I hadn’t noticed I was standing in his way. Why isn’t she looking at me?

Theo stops when he reaches the back of the couch, his gaze falling on the massive blood stain on the floor. And the wall. And the couch. My mind floods with reminders of her body pinned between me and the couch, and I will her to look at me again.

She doesn’t.

Fuck that. Stepping between Rosalind’s legs, I grab her chin and force her eyes to mine. She looks surprised but doesn’t fight my hold.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen.” She nods against my hand, confusion evident in the stunted movement. I’m not sure what I needed from this point of contact, but her looking at me with so much hesitation isn’t it. “I have to get dressed.”

Stepping away from her feels far more physically demanding than it should be. I’ve walked away hundreds of times before.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

Silent.

The bedroom door closes without a sound, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I have a job to do, and Rosalind White cannot distract me from it. I will walk away from her a thousand times if it means being at my brother’s side when he takes over our family. She will not come between me and my place in the MacAlisters.

Not this time.

—

Church has to be my least favorite part of the Underworld.

It has always seemed like a weak point in our armor, the obvious time and place to attack with every MacAlister leader gathered in one place. The Father refused to acknowledge the risk involved, insisting that no one would be low enough to attack us in a house of the Lord.

I call bullshit on that. They come into our homes, a violation far worse than disrespecting some deity in the sky.

“Callum,” Grant’s sharp tone pulls me from my thoughts. He’s moving across the grass between gravestones, and I have to stop myself from wincing. The graveyard in front of the Church is creepy as fuck.

“Morning.”

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