The Marriage Contract (12 page)

Dr. Harris was a wizened little man who looked like a goblin from Harry Potter, a comparison she’d come up with when she was younger and never been able to shake. He closed the door softly behind him, and got right down to business. “What can you tell me about how this happened?”

“I don’t know.” No, that wasn’t strictly the truth. She took a deep breath, trying to still her frantic thoughts. It was hard, harder than she could have dreamed, because all she could focus on was the fact that Teague was hurt and they needed to do
something
. “He was dumped intentionally in front of me. He’s been beaten, but I don’t think he’s been tortured.” She’d just seen him this morning, and…Her heart clenched. It didn’t take long to torture someone. It was something that could be drawn out, certainly, but there were rough and dirty methods that didn’t require too much time.

She really wished she didn’t know that.

Harris moved to the other side of the bed and rolled up his sleeves, every inch the calm professional. “You’ve gotten him cleaned up and started with the ice. Good. It makes it easier to see the damage, and will help with the swelling.” He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard him washing his hands. Callie made an effort to keep breathing, which was difficult with dread trying to choke her. He reappeared and went to work, prodding Teague’s face in a way that made her wince.

He looked up. “If this is too difficult…”

“No, it’s fine.” She trusted the doctor with her life, but she wouldn’t leave him alone with Teague. Micah’s words still echoed in her head, threatening to make her jump at shadows. It was one thing to know that some of the men didn’t approve, and completely another to hear him saying they should leave Teague to his fate. She wasn’t about to admit to them that Ronan’s death had altered the landscape so much that her marriage was vitally important in keeping the lot of them safe. There were more sharks in this ocean than just the Hallorans and O’Malleys—better to go with the devil she knew than the one she didn’t. At least the older men recognized the threat, which was why there’d only been a minimum of mumbling discontent from them.

The younger ones, like Micah? She suspected they’d hoped she’d pick one of them to marry, bringing them up in the ranks and avoiding the need to invite in an outsider. It was a shortsighted goal, but since none of them had openly spoke against her marriage, she hadn’t been forced to address it directly. Thank God. She didn’t have enough time or energy to deal with yet another mess.

Harris pulled out a pair of scissors and carefully cut away Teague’s shirt and pants. He paused, but left his underwear. She could have told him it wasn’t necessary, but she couldn’t force the words out, not when all she could focus on was the mass of bruises darkening the skin she’d just spent hours worshipping. “Oh, Teague.”

The doctor continued his careful poking and prodding, and part of her was grateful Teague wasn’t awake for it since there was no way it
didn’t
hurt. From his little suitcase, he pulled out what looked like an ultrasound machine and went to work on Teague’s stomach, where the majority of the bruises were concentrated, watching the screen with a small frown on his face. He finally sat back with a sigh. “I won’t know for sure without a few more tests, but it looks like he came off relatively lucky.”

Lucky?
“How bad is it?”

“Lots of bruises and swelling, and I suspect a few bruised ribs, but nothing seems to be broken and there isn’t any internal bleeding. I’ll need to see him in about a week, though don’t hesitate to call if it looks like he’s getting worse.”

She waited, but it didn’t look like there was more forthcoming. “That’s it?”

He smiled, reaching out to pat her hand. “As long as he takes it easy, he should make a full recovery.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you, Dr. Harris. I really appreciate you rushing over here.”

“Of course, Callista.” He frowned. “Are you getting enough sleep? You look exhausted.”

She tried for a smile. “It’s nothing. I’m just a bit stressed.”

His frown deepened. “Stress can do a significant amount of harm. Whatever’s going on can wait—you have to take care of yourself first.”

Easier said than done. She wished it was as easy as jaunting off on a vacation and recharging, but that wasn’t an option. Her father and her people needed her. Hell, right now,
Teague
needed her. She smoothed back the matted hair on his head. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Would you like me to prescribe you some sleeping aids? It’s not a long-term solution, but it may help you get to the other side of whatever you’re dealing with.”

She started to demur before she noticed the stubborn look on his face. He wasn’t going to leave before he had some sort of assurance that she’d take his advice. Callie sighed. “I’d like that very much.” She wouldn’t use the pills, though. She didn’t deserve the peaceful slumber of someone with a clean conscience. More than that—as if that wasn’t reason enough—she couldn’t risk some threat arising while she was knocked out and her being unable to deal with it.

He scribbled out the prescription on a pad of paper he pulled from his pocket and handed it over. “Get it filled, Callista. And eat a full meal or two.” His kind smile took some of the sting out of his words.

“Thank you, Dr. Harris.”

“Remember, I’m only a phone call away.” He repacked his bag and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. She sagged, fighting against the burning in her throat and eyes. It was okay. Teague was okay.

But it could have been so much worse.

She lifted his hand into her lap, careful to not jar him, and stroked her fingers over the broken skin on his knuckles, tracing the tattoos there.
He’s okay. Just keep breathing, because he’s going to be fine.
It helped, but not nearly enough. Her gaze kept going back to his bruised face, to that moment when she thought she might never see those soulful dark eyes look at her with hunger again. She could have lost him today, and she’d barely gotten used to the idea of having him.

Someone had done this to him.

It didn’t matter to whoever hurt him—and she had some ideas about that—that he didn’t ask for this, or that
he
wasn’t even remotely responsible for Brendan’s death, even by proxy. All they’d seen was an insult that had to be avenged.

A goddamn
insult
.

Rationally, she knew wars had been started over less, but the anger unfolding in her chest didn’t care. They’d hurt him. They could have even killed him, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She’d been helpless, just as she’d been helpless when Brendan wrapped his meaty hands around her throat, her death in his eyes.

Her body shook, her stomach trying to revolt, but she closed her eyes and rode it out. That nightmare was over, but this one was just getting started. She might be responsible for Brendan’s death, but she hadn’t gone into that strip club looking to hurt him. All she’d wanted was answers. To
talk
. To get a feel for the man she was supposed to marry.

He
was the one who’d brought them to violence, to a life-or-death struggle that only she had walked away from—just like
his
kin had been responsible for hurting Teague. It didn’t matter if they were the ones to actually deliver the blows. Her men didn’t move on an enemy without her father’s okay, and she seriously doubted that Victor Halloran went about things any differently. If anything, he was even more controlling that Papa.

No, the attack on Teague was because a Halloran had ordered it.

She’d find out who and then she’d…What? Kill him like she killed Brendan?

This time, when her stomach lurched, she couldn’t fight it back down. She barely made it to the bathroom in time to lose every last bit of cake she’d eaten today. Callie threw up until she couldn’t throw up any more, and then she washed her face and brushed her teeth, her mind reeling and her body shaking. No matter how angry she was, she couldn’t make that call. They hadn’t killed Teague. They hadn’t even injured him critically, for all that it looked horrible. She couldn’t call for a death as a result. She stopped in the doorway and watched his chest rise and fall, reassuring herself that he was still breathing.

But if they’d killed him…Her heart tried to beat itself out of her chest, but she forced herself to finish the thought. If they’d killed him, there wasn’t a single spot in Boston where they could hide that she wouldn’t find them and make them pay.

J
ames nursed his second whiskey as time ticked by. There were things to do and calls to make, but he hadn’t moved from this spot since Teague left hours ago. He respected the man’s willingness to put the safety of his family before anything else—even a relative innocent. Because whatever the family—O’Malley, Halloran, or Sheridan—none of
them
were truly innocents.

It just went to shine the light on
his
willingness to let the girl who may or may not have murdered his older brother get away. If his old man knew, he’d lose his shit. The skin between James’s shoulder blades twitched, as if expecting the lash. His father wouldn’t go so far as to kill him—probably—but he had no problem exacting his punishments in blood.

James had the scars to prove it.

He downed half his whiskey, the burn in his throat doing nothing to calm his mind. He didn’t want this shit any more than Teague seemed to, but at least the other man was taking steps to put it to a stop. He sighed. The time for indecision was over.

They had to find the girl.

The door to the pub opened and a group of men streamed through, Ricky in the center of them. Their voices cut through the relative quiet of the room, their laughter too loud and too sharp. Ricky lifted his hand. “Tommy, we’re celebrating! First round’s on the house.”

What. The. Fuck?

There was nothing to celebrate. He straightened, his fingers tightening around the glass. They were acting suspiciously, like they were coming off a successful hit, but he knew for a fact he hadn’t ordered one. He finished his whiskey and got up, moving slowly to the bar to set the glass down, leaning there while he listened to the men at Ricky’s table.

“Fuck, that guy hit hard.”

Ricky laughed. “Not for long. Did you see the look on that bitch’s face when we dropped him? I think she pissed her tiny little running shorts.” More laughter all around.

James turned, waiting for them to realize he was there. He could rush over and start demanding answers, but one of the few useful things he’d learned from his old man was that how you entered a situation determined whether you’d come out on top or bottom. These were
his
men and
his
brother, and as great as it’d be to pretend that this was a perfect world where the men would always respect him, that wasn’t how things worked. Love and fear were the only two emotions that forged loyalty, and he knew better than to aim for the former.

The man facing the bar noticed him first, his left eye swollen nearly shut. James couldn’t place his name—any of their names aside from his brother—but the man knew him. He went silent. The guy next to him turned to see what he was looking at, and paled. It went like that around the table, until Ricky was the only one still laughing and bragging.

His littler brother finally looked over and his grin widened. “Here to celebrate, James?”

Another tumbler of whiskey showed up at his elbow, courtesy of Tommy. He picked it up, fighting to keep relaxed. He knew from dealing with Brendan and their old man that there was nothing scarier than the eerie calm that preceded an explosion of violence. He hoped like hell that he wouldn’t have to go there tonight, but Ricky was oblivious to the men exchanging leery glances around him. “What are we celebrating?”

“We whooped that O’Malley douche’s ass.” Ricky laughed, too loud in the now-silent room. “You should have seen his face. That pussy went down and didn’t get back up again.”

Motherfucker
. He watched any chance of peace slide down the drain, along with his ability to walk away from his brother tonight. He had to make an example of him. God
damn
it. James pushed off the bar. “You beat Teague O’Malley.”

Ricky’s smile melted off his face, as if he was just now realizing there was danger. “He insulted our family.”

The idiot never stopped to consider why an O’Malley would be walking away from one of
their
pubs without a scratch on him. His younger brother didn’t have the vicious streak that had made Brendan a force of nature, but he was shaping up to be just as stupid when it came to thinking things through. James met each of the men’s gazes at the table in turn. “Get the fuck out.” He raised his voice slightly. “
Everyone
get the fuck out. Now.”

No one questioned the order, and they scattered faster than he would have credited. Then there was only him and Ricky. He wasted no time grabbing the front of his brother’s shirt and hauling him out of his chair. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Get your hands off me.”

Instead, he shook Ricky. “Answer the goddamn question.”

“He was on our turf!”

Disgusted, James shoved him back into the chair hard enough that it almost toppled over backward. “And you never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason for that, did you? He was here to meet with me so we could attempt to resolve this shit peacefully.”

“Peacefully.” Ricky’s lip curled. “Those fuckers spit in our face. They deserve to pay.”

“You sound like our old man.”

“Maybe because he’s got some balls. Brendan did, too.” He made a show of looking James up and down. “The old man is right—you’re as much a pussy as the O’Malleys and Sheridans. Even more so, because at least they’re willing to fight.”

The decision played out before James, lightning fast. He could yell at his fool brother and hope to God it was enough to make him see reason. Or he could make damn sure Ricky never crossed him again.
He
was the heir now. He couldn’t afford to spend the rest of his life cleaning up his brother’s messes, or worse, constantly looking over his shoulder.

Fear or love.

It was painfully obvious that love wouldn’t do it—hadn’t done it despite the fact that they’d always been close. The only way to stop this shit in its tracks was to cut it off at the source. He hauled Ricky out of his seat again and dragged the struggling man toward the back room. His brother realized their destination and fought harder. “What the hell? Jesus, James, I was just screwing with you. Stop. Holy shit,
stop
.”

James shoved him through the door and followed him inside, kicking it shut behind him, feeling like he tore off a ragged chunk of his soul in the process. He took a deep breath, the scent of old blood and fear almost enough to make him gag. “I don’t give a fuck if you hate every damn decision I’m making, you don’t move without my permission. Hell, you don’t even
breathe
unless I give the okay. You got it?”

“Yeah, James. I get it. I swear I do.” His brother nodded frantically, his hands still outstretched as if that would really save either of them from what was coming.

James rolled his shoulders. “You know the drill, Ricky. Canes or the whip?”

Teague woke up in waves of pain. He felt like a train had hit him—maybe two. It hurt to breathe, and he had no illusions about the fun times ahead when he actually moved. He cracked open his eyes, finding himself in a dim room that he’d never seen before. He looked around as much as possible without moving his head, taking in the feminine four-poster bed and white canopy that wouldn’t look out of place in a fairy tale. Everything was white—the dresser, the vanity, the walls.

“You’re awake.”

He gritted his teeth and turned his head to see Callie standing in the doorway that seemed to lead into a bathroom. Fuck, that hurt. “I thought I might be in heaven, but now I’m sure.”

She gave a tired smile. “At least you still have your charm.”

“I have more than that. Come here and—” He winced at the sharp pain that shot through him when he lifted his arm. “On second thought, maybe I’ll just lie here.”

“Smart.” She crossed to carefully sit on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know you’re in pain, but do you feel like you’re going to be sick? Or dizzy?”

Signs of a concussion. He took careful stock, because while being manly and tough was great for impressing the people around him, it wouldn’t do him any good if he passed out the second he sat up. “No. My face feels like someone took a two-by-four to it, and I’m pretty sure those assholes kicked me once I was down, but nothing more serious than that.”

“That’s plenty serious.”

He’d dealt with worse, albeit not often. Teague looked around the room again. “Not that I’m complaining, exactly, how but did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

He didn’t remember
anything
after that coward hit him in the back of the head. From the state of his body, they must have kept beating him for a while, and then transported him somewhere. There was no other reason for him being in what he figured what must be Callie’s room. “I suspect I was unconscious at the time.”

She looked away, twisting at the edge of the comforter. “You were dumped in front of me by an SUV registered to Ricky Halloran.”

“Fuck.” He closed his eyes, trying to get a hold of his anger. That little shit had always been a troublemaker, even if he was nowhere near as dangerous as Brendan. Or he hadn’t been. It looked like he was gunning for the rep, and he wasn’t smart enough to pull it off without getting himself killed. Jumping Teague in Halloran territory right after he met with James? Dumping Teague’s unconscious body from his own goddamn SUV?

He was an idiot.

But just because he was stupid didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Teague could anticipate what James would do in most situations—or at least he’d like to think he could. He stopped, thinking hard. Was it possible James had been the one to order the beating? His mind immediately rebelled at the thought, but he forced himself to reason through it. James had met him in good faith. The man might have changed in the years since they were close, but he was smart. He would know that attacking Teague would only escalate things. Even if it was part of his plan, he’d still wait for a time when they hadn’t just had a damn meeting. It was too obvious. Too clumsy. It wasn’t James’s style at all, even if he was willing to betray Teague.

But Ricky? Ricky was a loose goddamn cannon.

Teague cursed long and hard. “Every time I think this situation can’t get worse, the universe decides to go and prove me wrong.”

“At least you’re alive.” He opened his eyes to find Callie closer, an unreadable expression on her face. “I thought you were dead for a moment.”

And it had obviously scared the shit out of her. He ignored the protest of his ribs and raised his hand. “Come here, angel.” She crawled across the bed to settle next to him, leaving a few scant inches between them as if she was afraid of hurting him further. He smoothed back her hair, taking in her tank top and faded sweatpants. If asked before, he would have guessed that she slept in some sort of slinky teddy or something equally feminine.

Apparently he would have been wrong.

He met her gaze. “I’m okay.” Mostly okay.

Obviously her thoughts had gone down the same path. “This time. What about next time?”

There were no guarantees in life. But he couldn’t say that with her so blatantly looking to him for reassurance. Sometimes life was about the comforting little white lies you told to make the people around you feel better, at least for a little while. “We’ll figure it out before it gets to that point.”

Her expression said she didn’t believe that any more than he did. She traced his face with her gaze, and he could almost hear her cataloging every bruise and cut. “The doctor said you’ve got to take it easy for a bit, but you should make a full recovery.”

It was strange having someone worried about him. He was used to being on the other side of things—of constantly being concerned about the future and his siblings. Her scrutiny made his skin feel too tight. Uncomfortable. Because he couldn’t say the words she needed to hear in order to feel better. They didn’t exist. She was obviously too smart to fall for that kind of lie, too.

He took her hand. “I’ll take care of myself. I promise.”

“Liar.” But she smiled a little. “You’re going to go rushing into danger at the first opportunity, and we both know it.”

Maybe. Probably. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “What if I promise to be as careful as I can be?”

“It’s better than nothing, I suppose.” She stared at their joined hands. “I don’t like the idea of losing you, Teague.”

He understood. The thought of something happening to her had crippling panic flaring inside him. He’d move heaven and earth to keep her safe. He should be doing his damnedest to keep his list of people he wanted to keep safe from growing, but for better or worse, Callie’s name was on it now. He took a breath, ignoring the pain in his chest. “I plan on making it to our wedding.”

She didn’t look like that comforted her, but it was the best he could do right now. Once he found Brendan’s killer, he’d put them both into a safer position. He rolled onto his side with a grunt and caught sight of the clock. “Shit, I’ve got to get moving.”

“What? To where?”

“Mass.”

Her disbelief might have been funnier under different circumstances. “You need to stay in bed.”

He didn’t expect her to understand. The Sheridans may be Irish-Catholic, but they weren’t anywhere near the insane level as his family. Somewhere along the line, his father had decided that going every Sunday, regardless of whatever crisis they were currently in the middle of, somehow balanced the scales of all the bad shit he brought into the world.

The only excuse for missing Mass was if Teague was in a coffin. He could argue that he was a grown-ass adult and not subject to the approval of his parents, but it was a relatively small price to pay to keep them off his back.

Plus, he hadn’t seen his siblings—aside from that delightful run-in with Aiden—in almost a week. It might be foolish to think that he could keep them safe, but at least if he laid eyes on them all in the same place he’d get a little reassurance. He sat up and waited impatiently for the room to stop spinning. “I’ll get back in bed after Mass.”

“You’re joking.” She stared, and he held her gaze. “You’re not joking.”