Page 80 of Callum

Her smile is positively wicked when she replies, “Always.”

Twenty-Two: Breaking

ROSALIND

The street is too quiet. My gaze sweeps across the nearly identical cookie-cutter houses on either side of the tree-lined lane. They’re all painted from the same neutral color palette, with every other house being an alternate layout. Each one has a single porch light turned on, the soft tendrils of light reaching through the darkness.

We creep along the fence, blending into the shadows.

Callum is crouched in front of me, his shoulders tense with anticipation. He’s loaded down with several guns that he pulled from various places around the safe house, and he’s even wearing a spare knife for me.

I’m so desperately obsessed with that fact. I can’t stop staring at the subtle lump of steel between his shoulder blades. He asked if I wanted it in a more easily accessible place, but there’s just something about having my blade against his spine that warms me from the inside out. The idea that he trusts me enough to keep my knife so close to a valuable part of his body makes me want to strip my soul bare for him.

“Now,” Callum says the word so low I barely catch it. If he didn’t immediately start moving toward the house with the beige garage door, I could easily convince myself I was hearing things.

He doesn’t stop next to the garage, continuing down the side of the house until he’s stopped by a fence that perfectly matches the one we just left on the opposite side of the street. Reaching up, he feels along the top rail of the wooden gate until his fingers hook through the latch. Callum lifts the gate as he swings it open, and the hinges move soundlessly against one another.

I will never understand how he knows exactly what movements will cause things to make noise. It’s like a freaky sixth sense.

Callum waves me around him, pulling the gate closed as he creeps into the backyard behind me. The grass immediately slopes downward, exposing the side of a walkout basement. There must be a glass door on the back of the house because I can see the soft glow of an inside light spreading across the small patio beneath us.

“Stay behind me,” Callum breathes directly into my ear, his body pressed flush to my back. He points to the closest side of the patio, his arm extending in front of my body like an extension of my own. “Stop there and wait for the all-clear.”

Oh, fuck no. I’m not going to sit outside while Callum goes in alone.

He moves past me, silently walking down the hill before stopping at the corner of the house where he wants me to wait. Creeping up behind him, I stay in the shadows while he peeks around the corner to see what we’re about to walk into. When his hand taps against my leg, I know it’s time.

He begins to move along the back of the house, and I feel the moment he realizes I’m coming with him. Callum’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t stop our careful progress toward the sliding door. I don’t see any men on the other side of the glass, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Callum stops abruptly, giving me several quick hand gestures that either mean, “Stay to my right, and don’t get shot”, or “You little brat, I’m going to spank your ass until it bleeds”.

I nod in agreement with either situation.

The lock gives way without much fight, and Callum carefully slides the door open. Slow and steady steps carry us across the threshold and into the basement. There’s a massive L-shaped couch facing a TV in the middle of the room and two doors on both the right and left sides. The stairs are to the left of the entertainment stand, and a fully stocked mini-bar sits on the right.

I’m still cataloging our odds if we start throwing open doors when a man comes lumbering down the stairs. Callum and I dive behind the couch just as he comes into view. The man moves across the room, walking from the stairs to the mini-bar with heavy steps.

The guy starts rattling every bottle at the bar, utterly oblivious to Callum and I having a full-blown silent argument behind the couch.

My hands wave wildly in the space between us, insisting that “I can kill him”.

Callum points at me before pressing his finger into the carpet, demanding I “Stay put”.

“I’m closer” is conveyed through several sweeping gestures from my chest toward the end of the couch.

“I will tie you up and leave you here,” involves two complicated twirling motions with his left hand.

“Cool. I’m gonna go kill him now.”

Callum’s body heat follows on my heels as I creep along the back of the couch, but he doesn’t try to stop me. The man is still standing at the bar, his back to the room as he pours himself a drink.

Deciding I’m not working with a criminal mastermind here, I pull two knives from my belt. Testing their weight in my palm, I grip one in my right hand as I stand to my full height. There’s a mirror behind the mini-bar, and I expect him to see me the moment I’m on my feet.

He doesn’t. In fact, the man appears to be far too involved in his drink to even see himself in the mirror.

I see him, though.

I recognize him.

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