Page 87 of Callum

“What’s wrong, kitten?”

“You want us all to live together?”

He freezes behind me, both arms tightening around my waist before his hands press into my sides. Callum spins me to face him, a severe look in his eyes. “You’re not living without me ever again, Red.”

There’s a threat to the words. The implication that he intends to kill me if I try to run from him again makes my heart flutter in my chest. It’s fucked up, but it’s also kind of perfect. It’s everything I ever wanted but never thought I could have.

“Never again.”

—

The bedroom door slams open, and I’m on my feet before I know what’s happening. “Get dressed.”

“What’s going on?”

“Merrick caught word of someone hiding in one of the old cabins behind Mossy Oak,” Callum strips off his t-shirt, and I get lost in the play of his muscles as he reaches for a sweater on the top shelf of the closet. I snap back into my head when his words finally process.

“You think they’re RMF?”

Callum grins over his shoulder, a devilish glint in his eyes. “I think there’s only one way to find out.”

We’re on the road in less than five minutes, speeding toward the outskirts of town. My mind races with the possibilities. What if it’s Dodge? As much as I never want to see that useless fuck again, I will take great pleasure in ending his life. If Callum doesn’t beat me to it.

My eyes snap toward him, sitting stoically in the driver’s seat as I spin one of the new knives between my fingers. I miss my old knife, the one that Callum gave me for my twentieth birthday. I hadn’t realized how much significance the knife had held for him until I saw the tattoo on his chest.

“Why did you get that tattoo?”

“Which one, kitten?”

“My knife.”

“I needed the reminder.”

“Reminder of what?”

“Mistakes I’ve made.”

I huff, turning to face the window again. I can’t see anything but my own face reflected back to me in the glass. It’s far too dark in the woods at this time of night, the only light coming from Callum’s foglights as the car creeps along the Mossy Oak trail. “Me?”

Callum slams the car to a stop, putting it in Park before he turns to face me. “Absolutely fucking not, Rosalind.”

That gets my attention, and I hesitate for a moment. “You said ‘mistakes’, and it’s my knife.”

“I killed your father with that knife.”

Of all the things he could have said, that one shocks me the most. “What?”

“I tracked him down in Georgia, of all fucking places, and I killed him. Seven times,” he adds with a small smirk. “I carved out each of his organs with that knife until he eventually stopped being a viable life.”

“And that was a mistake?” It’s the only question I can ask, even as a thousand others tumble through my mind. How did you find him? How did you even know about him? Why did you kill him? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why don’t I care that he’s dead?

“That kill belonged to you,” Callum sighs, something pinching in his eyes. “I was so wrapped up in my own anger that I didn’t see how taking his life myself meant I was taking an opportunity from you. It might have brought you closure for that part of your life, and I thought that gifting you the knife that killed him might give back some of what I took. I’m sor—”

“Stop,” I move without thought, crawling over the center console to curl myself into his lap. “Thank you, Callum. Thank you for killing him, and thank you for my knife.”

“You’re welcome, kitten.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, a deep sigh escaping his chest. “We’re going to get your knife back, I promise.”

—

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