Page 89 of Callum

Sweat beads across his bare torso, but he doesn’t buck against my knife. Not after the last time. None of us enjoyed Callum having to step in to bring Hutton back to life after the blade slipped between his ribs.

My knife catches against the edge of Hutton’s sternum, and I sigh, moving the blade back to his armpit for a fresh pass across his chest. Lachlan gave us full reign of his murder dungeon, but there isn’t much in here I’m familiar enough with to risk using. Not that I wouldn’t love to get my hands on the electric chair he has set up in the far corner.

“Please,” Hutton begs, his head hanging so low I think his chin might be resting against his collarbone. “I don’t know anything.”

“The problem with that,” I sigh, gripping a handful of his hair to tip his head back. He looks up at me with one half-closed eye. I swing my leg over his lap, making sure not to catch my stitches against the arm of the chair. “I just don’t believe you.”

“I’m not lyi—fuck!”

The tip of my knife slices across the top of his nipple, and I smile at his pain. “Try again, Hutters.”

“Fuck you, Red.”

“Ew,” my face scrunches as I dig the blade deeper into the pebbled pink skin of his areola. “No thanks.”

“He’s going to kill you.”

“See,” I huff, pinning his skin to my knife with my thumb. I like the way his fear plays across his face. “That, right there? That’s why I don’t fucking believe you.”

The sound of his scream as I yank my hand down is loud enough to make my ears ring. Climbing off his lap, I leave him to breathe through his pain. He’s going to tell me where Dodge is and what he’s planning. He has to. Hutton is the last RMF Soldier we could find on this side of the border. While I’m not opposed to storming the Castle in Balkirk, Callum has assured me that isn’t viable.

Not until the Father is dead.

The thought makes me smile. Callum promised me the Father will pay for his part in what happened to our daughter. He told me all the ways he’s going to make the old bastard suffer while fucking me against the refrigerator.

That was a fun orgasm.

Hutton’s whimpers finally die down enough for me to start in on him again. Choosing my sharpest knife from the array that Callum has brought me over the last week, I spin toward Hutton again. “You ready for round five?”

“No. Please,” snot drips from his nose, landing on his bare thigh. Gross.

I’m two steps from him when I hear the door to the basement open. Callum shouts my name, clearly anticipating the room being filled with screams. When he realizes it’s quiet, he sighs. “Did you kill him again?”

“Not yet,” I chirp, winking at Hutton. He doesn’t look impressed.

“Well, wrap it up. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

“We do?” Callum nods but doesn’t explain, closing the door again. Spinning toward Hutton, I bare my teeth in something resembling a smile. “Sorry, buddy. Looks like we’re all out of time. Thanks for playing, though!”

“No, no, wait—”

Hutton tries to scramble backward, but the chair is bolted to the floor. His feet slide along the blood-soaked concrete as he thrashes against his restraints. Stepping behind his chair, I watch him struggle for a moment. Too little, too late, I’m afraid.

My fingers fist into his hair, snapping his head back so my knife can drag across the smooth column of his throat. Blood pours hot and metallic across his bare chest, flooding over his lap and onto the floor beneath our feet. I’ve lost count of how many outfits have been ruined by blood stains in the last week. I’m just glad Lachlan has waterproof booties that save my shoes from succumbing to the same fate.

On my way out of the basement, I stop at the industrial sink, washing my hands and arms. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I wipe a few blood flecks from my cheeks before straightening my ponytail.

“You took your sweet time,” Callum grumbles, leaning against the counter in the empty kitchen. I’m not sure where Lachlan lives, but it isn’t here. “We’re going to be late.”

“Be late for what?”

“JJ’s back.”

My heart stops at the implication behind his words. “Does he…is it…”

“He doesn’t have her,” he gives me a sad smile, and I can see the stress of the last week sitting around his eyes. Callum hasn’t been sleeping. As much as I would love to blame it on all the sex we’ve been having, it isn’t the culprit.

He spends every night pacing the length of the Safe House, his hand resting against his gun when he peeks through the curtains on his fourth pass-through. The days aren’t much better than the nights. Callum is constantly checking the cameras and touching base with the security team outside the house. It’s like he’s preparing for a war that he isn’t sure we’ll win.

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