Page 84 of Callum

At this point, he has already died twice, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to bring him around a third time with the limited supplies I’ve brought with me.

For the hundredth time since I laid Turner out on the kitchen table, my gaze snaps to Rosalind. She’s covered in blood and brains, as well as some kind of dark grime that lines her arms and the bandage on her neck. Her hair has been hastily piled into a bun on top of her head, and several pieces have escaped the hair tie she produced from thin air the moment she sat down.

She’s beautiful.

My fingers catch on something in Turner’s chest that has him threatening to buck off the table. The temporary restraints strain across his shoulders as he arches off the wooden surface, a scream ripping through his throat. Maybe he has more left in him than I thought.

Ratchet straps are made to hold down a lot more than two hundred pounds of human, so I don’t worry too much about them snapping. Curious about what caused such a primal reaction, I peek through the opening I’ve carved next to his sternum. I can see my hands moving beneath his ribs, having cut away most of the visceral pleura.

“Oops,” I chuckle at the wild look in Turner’s eyes when he hears my voice. “Accidentally nicked your heart. That’s one way to wake you up, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, simply thrashing against his restraints again. It’s dangerous for him to be doing that with my hands inside of his chest, but I’m not sure he would appreciate the admonishment.

“If you would just tell me what I want to know, I could sew you up and send you on your merry way.” We both know that’s a lie, but he’s just panicked enough that I see him consider it. “What is Dodge planning?”

Turner grunts, his head snapping against the wooden tabletop. He opens his bloodstained mouth, but no words come out.

“You can do better than that, Turner.” My fingers press into the side of his lung, the small metal rod jamming deep into the organ. Turner screams, but that won’t help his cause. “I would stop that if I were you.”

The sound of air bubbling through liquid filters across the room the moment Turner quiets. “That’s the sound of your lung slowly deflating—a bit like a balloon, but also not at all. Your lung is collapsing.” I tighten my hold around the organ in question, making the sound of bubbles speed up as Turner groans loudly again. “It’s not your typical collapsed lung, of course. Normally, the air would escape into your chest cavity, and the pressure against the outside of your lung would force it closed.”

I press forward, squeezing more air from his heaving lung. His heart beats against the side of my wrist, the elevated pace unsafe for a man his age. “This is the manual variation, but the effect is the same.”

“Stop,” Turner groans out the words like it’s costing him everything he has. “Please, st—”

Rosalind’s shout cuts off Turner’s plea. My head snaps in her direction in time to see the man standing behind her wrap his hand around her throat. His other hand is gripping her wrist hard enough that I can see his knuckles turning white, forcing Rosalind to drop the knife she has aimed at his chest. I don’t recognize him, but that isn’t surprising. I’ve yet to know any of the Roman soldiers in this house.

Where the fuck did he come from?

“I’d kindly ask you to take your hands off her, but I’m not feeling all that kind at present.”

The man sneers, the hand at Rosalind’s throat tightening until I hear her hiss a strangled breath. Well, he won’t be keeping that hand.

Turner sobs when I pull my fingers from his chest, but I ignore him. There are more critical things to deal with right now—namely, Captain Grabbyhands over here. I inch around the table, never taking my eyes off his face. I survey him while meticulously removing my gloves. He’s not a typical Roman goon. I don’t see any scars or sores marring his face, neck, or arms. I don’t even see track marks in the soft skin of his cubital fossa. “I won’t ask you again. Let go of her.”

“Why would I do that when she’s so comfortable here?” He forces Rosalind’s hand against his chest, her palm flattening along his ribs now that she no longer has her knife. The man moves her hand lower, and I narrow my eyes on him. If he puts her hand anywhere near his dick, he’ll lose that, too. “You’re comfortable with me, aren’t you, Rosalind?”

The use of her first name stops me in my tracks. None of Dodge’s men have called her anything but Red so far. What makes this one different?

“You wanna tell the good Doctor about me?” He whispers the words directly into Rosalind’s ear, but I hear them just fine from my spot next to the head of the table. “Or does he already know about us?”

The man sneers, and I can see the possessiveness in his eyes. “How many nights did you sneak away from Dodge only to fall into my bed? Always so desperate for someone to fuck you properly. Did you tell the Doctor how much you love riding my cock, Rosalind?”

He makes two major mistakes in his taunting. First, he tries to prey on my emotions, which wouldn’t work in the best of times, much less when he’s got his hands on my kitten.

The second mistake was taking his eyes off Rosalind.

Her left hand sweeps up, a perfect arc that ends with her emergency knife sticking out of his carotid artery. Panic fills his features, and the big dumbass rips the knife from his neck. The life drains from his eyes only moments before it evacuates his muscles, and his body drops in a heap next to Rosalind’s chair.

“Great,” she sighs, wiping something from her arm. “More blood.”

“Who the fuck was that?”

“O’Brien,” she spits, angry eyes fixed on O’Brien’s lifeless body. “Real piece of shit. I’m not surprised Dodge sent him after me.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Rosalind spins toward me, lifting her leg from the seat beside her. She stands, and I notice the movement is shakier than before. “Why, what?”

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