Page 43 of His Obsession

When she looked up, Callum stood in the doorway, his dark eyes locked on hers, a predator unleashed. And for the first time, she felt not fear, but power.

The storm had arrived, and she was no longer the prey.

16

CALLUM

The air around the gallery erupted in chaos as the flashbangs Padraig had planted earlier in the day triggered in unison, each explosion a blinding burst of light and sound that sent screams and confusion rippling through the crowd. Callum’s ears rang from the shockwaves as attendees stumbled into the rain-soaked streets, their panicked cries mingling with the wail of car alarms and the distant hum of sirens. Smoke curled through the air, acrid and choking, stinging his eyes and burning his lungs. He welcomed the pain. It sharpened his focus.

“Move,” he barked into his earpiece, his voice low and deadly. “Clear the way to the office. Tiernan, take the west corridor. Quinn, cover the exits.”

“Copy,” Quinn replied, his voice steady despite the pandemonium. “Explosions were clean. No casualties, just chaos. You’ve got a straight shot—if you can get past the remaining guards.”

The remaining guards. Callum smiled malevolently, the weight of his Glock heavy and familiar in his hand.

He moved like a wraith through the gallery’s smoke-filled halls, his every step deliberate, every movement calculated. Ashe rounded a corner, he was confronted by a black panther he didn’t recognize. She snarled at him.

“I’m don’t know who you are, but I mean you no harm. My mate is in danger, and I must get to her.”

He moved past the beautiful shifter, and as he turned into the hallway leading to the office, he heard from behind him. “Go to your love, Callum Kavanaugh, and remind her that I told her stories of our kind.”

He turned back, but the shifter had vanished into the smoke. He whirled around as gunfire erupted ahead, flashes of light illuminating the twisted shadows. His tactical mind worked on overdrive, cataloging threats and opportunities. The chaos played to his advantage, forcing Bradford’s security into defensive positions that left gaps he could exploit.

Isolde’s image burned in his mind. The thought of her trapped in that office, surrounded by enemies, was the only thing that mattered. The primal need to reach her consumed him, sharper than the pain in his muscles. She wasn’t just a pawn in this game anymore—she was the queen he would protect at all costs.

Callum took cover behind a marble pillar as two guards advanced, their voices muffled by the smoke and their rifles trained on the hallway. He moved quickly, firing off two precise shots. Both men dropped soundlessly, their weapons clattering to the floor. He pressed forward without hesitation, his boots crunching on shattered glass.

“Deirdre’s in position,” Tiernan’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “But we have a couple of complications.”

“What complications?” Callum growled, his tone icy.

“Bradford has slipped away, and it doesn’t appear as if Deirdre is playing for Lynch anymore,” Tiernan said.

Callum’s jaw clenched as understanding dawned. Deirdre’s every move suddenly made sense—the whispers, the double-crosses, the calculated alliances. She wasn’t working for Eoin Lynch. She was working against him.

“Understood,” Callum said curtly. “Stay sharp. This isn’t over.”

The sound of a gunshot sliced through the air, freezing Callum in his tracks. His heart thundered in his chest, and for a split second, the world fell away. The office was only meters ahead. He forced his body into motion, crashing through the door with his gun raised.

The scene before him sent a surge of emotions—relief, fury, and something far darker—coursing through his veins.

Deirdre Lynch stood over her husband’s lifeless body, her fiery hair disheveled, her breathing ragged. The gun in her hand trembled slightly, but her expression was resolute. Blood pooled beneath Eoin’s twisted form, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Isolde was backed into a corner, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the scene, her wide eyes flicking between Deirdre and Callum. Her dress was torn at the hem, a bruise blooming on her cheek, but she was alive.

“You’re late,” Deirdre said, her voice tinged with bitter amusement.

Callum ignored her, his gaze locking onto Isolde. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice sharp but laced with concern.

Isolde shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Callum repeated, his lips pressing into a thin line. His fury at the situation threatened to boil over, but he tamped it down. He crossed the room in two strides, his free hand brushing against Isolde’s arm as if to reassure himself that she was real, that she was safe. She didn’t flinch, though her body trembled beneath his touch.

Deirdre cleared her throat, drawing his attention. “He was going to kill her,” she said simply, gesturing to Eoin’s body. “So I killed him first.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the Glock at his side. “And what’s your play now, Deirdre?”

Deirdre’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes held no humor. “I think we both know I’m done playing games, Callum. Eoin was a monster. My loyalty died with him.”

---