The Marriage Contract (11 page)

He hadn’t, either. James was one of the few people he’d talked to about his pipe dreams—to get out of this life and put as much distance between himself and the O’Malley legacy as he could. He examined the rough wood grain of the table, and then forced himself to look up and meet his former friend’s gaze. “Life never quite works out like we want it to.”

“Isn’t that the damn truth?”

The world had seemed different when they first met, when their respective responsibilities hadn’t been so suffocating. They’d had countless conversations about what they’d be doing if they weren’t part of families like theirs. That time of hope had passed right along with their friendship.

The silence stretched out between them as they drank, filled with all the broken dreams of the past. They were dead and gone, buried beneath a cold reality neither of them could avoid.

They weren’t the same men they’d been years ago. James was now heir to the Halloran family. And, Teague…Well, Teague was marrying Callie at his father’s command. It might not be the end of the world like he’d originally thought, but it didn’t change the fact that Seamus had told him to jump and he’d asked how high.

He noted the circles under James’s eyes—just one of the indications of how exhausted he had to be. “How are you doing, though? Seriously.”

“Christ, what do you expect me to say? We’re not friends anymore. I’m not going to cry on your shoulder about how shitty my life is, and I’m sure as fuck not down for a sleepover where we tell secrets and braid each other’s hair.”

“Good, because that’d be some one-sided shit.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” James downed half his beer. “Look, my brother wasn’t a saint and we both know it. But he was still family so, yeah, I’m not exactly bursting with happiness right now.”

That was about what he expected. “What if I can find out who killed him?”

He frowned. “What?”

This was it—where he’d either garner support or alienate the man completely. Teague took a deep breath, praying it was the former. “I don’t want this war. Neither does Callie.”

“No one wants this war, except maybe our fathers.” He smirked. “And Callie, huh? Sounds like you’re getting plenty cozy with that fiancée of yours.”

“I like her. I didn’t expect to.”

“Then you’re goddamn lucky.”

“I know.” He let out the breath he was holding. He’d been sure James didn’t want to go to war, but six years could change a person. They’d changed Aiden. Taking another drink, he steered clear of that thought. “If I can find out who killed Brendan, will your father call off his dogs?”

“You know something?” He zeroed in like a hunting dog catching a scent.

It was almost a shame Teague didn’t have concrete information yet. “I had some men who were there that night, up in one of the private rooms on the same floor. I’ve talked to them, and word is that it’s a woman. One of the strippers.”

James’s shoulders slumped and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck. I’d hoped it wasn’t.”

“Why?” The question was out before he could think better of it.

The man’s expression was bleak. “Do you know the types of girls my brother staffed that place with?” He went on before Teague could answer. “Runaways. Girls—and I do mean girls, not women—who came stateside on the promise of a dream. Most of them wouldn’t have chosen that for themselves.”

It was all too easy to imagine his sisters there, helpless and doing their damnedest to survive. How long before one of them broke and lashed back? Sloan might take it until it killed her. She was the type to keep her head down until she was in danger of breaking. Keira…How long until the fire inside her that he loved so much was doused? And Carrigan…

He set her beer down carefully. Carrigan would stick a broken bottle in someone the first chance she got. He studied James, trying to figure out where he was going with this. “What are you saying?”

“If one of those girls killed my brother, she’s long gone by now.” He looked away, his voice so low, Teague almost convinced himself he was imagining the next words. “And maybe Brendan got what he deserved.”

As much as he understood the sentiment—he would have killed Brendan himself if he tried to lay a hand on Teague’s sisters—knowing that didn’t solve the current issue. He cleared his throat. “If I can find the person who did it, will your father pull back?”

James sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t guarantee anything, but being able to get his vengeance might be enough to make him hold off punishing the insult of your marriage.”

He tapped the table. “I get that you have mixed feelings about this, but I’ll do damn near anything to stop this war from escalating before someone does something they can’t take back.”

“Even if it means some poor girl who might have just been defending herself is going to die?”

Teague stared at the wall, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t cold and heartless and completely self-serving. If he were a better man, he’d let this search go. His father’s men were better equipped to deal with the inevitable violence of war than some runaway who’d gotten in over her head. But war never came without collateral damage, and it was the thought of one of his younger siblings or, worse in some ways, Callie, being hurt that had him turning back to James. “Yes.”

He was a bastard and a half for sacrificing a woman who was likely already a victim for the sake of those he loved, but he’d own that.

“Cold.” James finished his beer. “I can’t promise anything and I don’t particularly support this, but there’s a chance it would be enough for my old man. A
chance
, Teague. I can’t guarantee anything.”

It wasn’t the firm agreement he’d wanted, but a chance was better than being turned down flat. There wasn’t much he could bring to the table as leverage, so he had to work with what he had. “I have to do whatever it takes to put a stop to this.”

“Yeah, I know.” He didn’t look too happy about it.

Teague drained his beer and set it back on the table. “It was good seeing you—though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

James’s smile was brief and more than a little bitter. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? There are no better circumstances.”

He nodded, because the man was right. This was their lot in life. At least it had perks from time to time, though he would have given them up in a heartbeat for some office job that he was able to leave behind when he came home and a family whose biggest drama was his parents not liking one of his sister’s boyfriends. But that was a pipe dream that would never be realized.

He had to deal with facts, and right now that meant minimizing the damage Victor Halloran was inclined to do. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Wish I could say I look forward to it.”

Teague turned and walked through the bar. There were more men than there had been when he came in, and every single one of them followed his movements over the rim of their drinks. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he had to make an effort to keep his pace measured and slow. If they knew he was worried, it would be like sharks scenting blood. Normally, he wouldn’t be too concerned—he was more than capable of handling himself—but he was on enemy territory and alone. The disadvantages of his current position were legion.

He pushed through the door and onto the street, the warm night air doing nothing to combat the chill running up his spine. He waited for the door to click shut behind him—and then for someone to follow him out—but a second passed and then another, until it became clear no one was coming. He’d hoped James wouldn’t send someone after him.

But he wouldn’t bet his life on it.

He adjusted his jacket and started down the street to where he’d parked. He’d done what he’d come here to do. It might not be enough—at this point there was no telling if
anything
he did would be enough—but it was something. James hadn’t shot him down, even if he’d opened the door to dark thoughts Teague didn’t like considering. He’d never considered himself anything like his father, but the call he’d made tonight was something Seamus O’Malley would be proud of.

Family first. Everyone else dead last.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

A scrape of a shoe against concrete had him turning to look behind him. He got a glimpse of three dark figures as he caught a fist in the gut. He grunted, doubling over, and was already moving to return the blow before the pain crippled him. He swung, hitting a man in the jaw, and turned for the second attacker.

Before he could swing, something crashed into the back of his head and everything went black.

C
allie blew out a sigh of relief when she was finally able to shut the front door on the back of the two O’Malley women. If she never saw another floral arrangement or tasted another bite of tester cake, it would be too soon. Aileen had seemed determined to fit six months of wedding plans into a single day, and she’d made a damn good job of it.

Worse, she promised to circle around next week sometime for dress shopping.

Callie hadn’t spent significant time fantasizing about what her wedding would be like as a young girl, and once she graduated from college, took over Moira’s, and began supervising the assortment of other businesses the Sheridans owned, she simply hadn’t had the time to really consider what a marriage—even a political marriage—would mean as far as planning went.

The whole thing was just
wrong
. She would have liked a small private event, not the circus the O’Malleys seemed determined to throw together. She understood the reasoning—the wedding had become a physical representation of their refusing to be cowed by their enemy—but the whole process was as pleasurable as walking over a bed of nails.

There were so many other things she needed to be doing. She hadn’t been down to Moira’s in nearly a week. It had been running just fine under the manager, Janey, before Callie graduated, and it would continue running just fine once she was forced to focus most of her energy on the other Sheridan assets, but she still liked the hands-on approach.

She’d been dropping balls left and right since that night at the strip club, and this wedding planning business threatened to be just another distraction. She didn’t
care
about the flowers or the venue or the guest list, and Aileen damn well knew it. So did Papa. But because she was the feminine half of this partnership, she was expected to pretty herself up and be delighted by the colossal waste of time.

If she had a normal life, she would have been enjoying every second of this, towing friends behind her to the various appointments, looking forward to the moment when the love of her life slipped a ring on her finger.

But she didn’t have a normal life—she was a goddamn Sheridan—and she hadn’t even been allowed to choose her groom. Thoughts of Teague brought a tired smile to her face. He was the sole high point, but thoughts of him too quickly turned to whom she’d been
supposed
to marry.

Brendan.

She rubbed a hand over her chest, the massive house suddenly feeling altogether too small. She needed to talk to Papa, to get this all out into the open once and for all. Maybe if she could tell
someone
about what she’d done, the awful weight on her chest would become bearable. She peeked into his office, and found him huddled down with John, talking strategy. He spoke with his hands, and though his expression was grim, he was more alive than she’d seen him in the months since the cops showed up to tell them her big brother had died.

I wish you were here, Ronan. Things would be so much simpler.

She’d had the thought more times than she could count, but it never brought him back. His loss was no longer an aching open wound in her chest, but it still smarted on days like this, when she was embroiled in the midst of things that never would have happened if she wasn’t the heir.

But she was.

So it was up to her to deal with it.

She moved past her father’s office and headed up to her room to change into running clothes. She had too much pent-up frustration after today. The feeling of being swept along with a current she couldn’t fight was stronger now than it had ever been, and what she needed more than anything was to regain some small bit of control. Running didn’t give her much—not in comparison—but it calmed her mind, and that was better than nothing.

The treadmill just wouldn’t do today, though. She felt like she’d been cooped up in this house for weeks on end, even though it’d been less than a week since everything went to hell in a hand basket. Micah looked up as she approached the front door. “Callie?”

“I’m going running.” She forced her voice calm. She was informing him of her intentions so he could best protect her—not asking permission. The whole respect thing wasn’t usually an issue with Micah, but he still answered to her father, and it was Papa who’d basically put her under house arrest. She didn’t like forcing him to choose between them, but the only alternative was losing her sanity by staying in this house for another minute.

“That’s a bad idea. Your father—”

“Micah, while I respect your opinion, I’m not asking for it.” She made a point of glancing at his Italian loafers. “I’d change your shoes if you’re coming along. It’s going to be a few miles at least.”

He sighed, looking like he still wanted to argue. She waited, letting him work through it. Papa might be angry, but Micah and she had spent enough time together that he had to know she’d go running with or without his permission. The only way he could stop her was by physically restraining her, and that was out of the question. She watched the thoughts flash across his face before settling into resignation. “Give me five minutes.”

“Happily.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and cued up her running playlist. By the time she’d warmed up a bit and stretched, Micah was back, now wearing a pair of basketball shorts and tennis shoes. He didn’t look any happier now than when he left, but he was here. She opened the door. “Let’s go.”

Before her world had blown up in her face, she had several routes around the neighborhood that she liked to take, depending on her mood. Today, she wanted to go through Cambridge Common. It never failed to lift her spirits, even if there was always a small tinge of jealousy since the people she saw there were from a completely different world than she was.

Micah easily kept pace, staying a few feet back where he could survey the threats to her before they got too close. They’d run together before, though not recently, so it was easy to fall back into the sound of his footsteps echoing hers. She pushed play on her phone and let the first strains of “Chasing Twisters” by Delta Rae roll over her. She wound through the streets. The heat of the day had given way to a slightly cooler evening, but the humidity made her clothes cling to her skin before she was through with her first mile.

She crossed the street to the common, slowing down so she could drink in the view. It was a strange comfort to know that her life might be falling apart in many ways, but the world kept on spinning. The huge, grassy field was broken up by a handful of trees and a scattering of summer students. It was nowhere near as busy as it’d be in the fall, but the normalcy she craved could always be found here.

She picked up her pace again, circling the block before heading back. It was good five miles, and the paths through the trees settled her in a way that little else was able to.

Teague could.

He’d done an excellent job of it last night. It was more than the orgasms—although those had been outstanding. When he held her in his arms, she could almost believe that she was truly safe and that, together, they could vanquish any enemy who rose against them. It was a foolish romantic notion, but even now she craved his mouth on hers and his skin sliding against her own. Maybe she’d call him when she got home. There were still half a million worries plaguing her mind, but it wouldn’t hurt to have another
reprieve
again.

Selfish? Most definitely. But she was so terribly alone in her guilt of Brendan’s murder. She wanted Teague to tell her everything would be okay, even if she couldn’t be completely honest with him.

She turned for home, her pacing slowing as her muscles cataloged their exhaustion. She didn’t see the car approaching, but a strong hand around her stomach yanked her away from the street as the SUV screeched to a halt in front of them. Micah turned, putting his body between her and the threat, but she saw the rear door fly open when she peered around his arm. Callie flinched, but no attack came.

Instead, a body fell to the pavement with a dull thud and the door slammed shut as the vehicle burnt, its tires peeling out and flying down the street.
Not a drive-by
. She ducked around Micah. “The plates. Memorize the plates.” She didn’t pause to make sure he obeyed, because she’d reached the man.

She turned him over carefully, and went cold when she caught sight of his face. “Teague. Oh my God.” His face was swollen and there was blood…everywhere. She felt for a pulse even as she raised her voice slightly. “Micah, I need you.” His chest rose and fell slightly, and she nearly cried out with relief. “We have to get him back to the house.”

Micah crouched on the other side of Teague. “It’s that little O’Malley shit. I say we leave him.”

She froze, barely holding in the impulse to scream in his face. Instead, her tone came out icy and low. “That is my fiancé you’re speaking of, so I suggest you watch your tone.”

His jaw hardened. “Yes, ma’am.” He only ever called her that when he was pissed, but she couldn’t bring herself to care right now. She’d deal with Micah’s hurt feelings when she was sure Teague would be okay.

She hadn’t wanted Brendan. If he had been the one dumped, she barely would have spared the step it required to move over his body. Perhaps that made her a monster, but she couldn’t change the way she felt. But this wasn’t Brendan—this was
Teague
. The man who’d helped her forget, at least for a little while, who’d held her in his arms and made her feel safe so she could actually sleep through the night. She’d no more leave him here than she would one of her people.

Hers.

The thought was almost enough to make her laugh. She wasn’t sure when he’d slipped beneath her defenses, but she already cared about him more than was safe. She waited for Micah to heft him off the ground. The man wasn’t a weakling by any means, but Teague was a large man in his own right. Thank God they weren’t far from the house.

As they hurried the last few blocks, she dialed Dr. Harris. Ever since Papa had extracted justice for the harm done to the good doctor’s son all those years ago, he’d been loyal to a fault. They’d required his help less in the last few years, but he was willing to make house calls and was discreet.

She had a feeling she’d be seeing a lot more of him before this thing ended.

Callie gave him the information and he promised to leave immediately. She hung up as they hit the property, and glanced over. Teague looked even worse under the glaring floodlights that lit up as they approached—beneath the blood, his skin was too pale. In the quiet of the night, she could hear the rasp of his breathing, which was as comforting as it was worrisome.

Please be okay. Please. I can’t lose you, too
.

Panic rose, fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird, but she wouldn’t give in to the scream building in her chest. She opened the door, pretending she didn’t see Micah’s hesitation to bring him inside, and led the way up to her room. It wasn’t proper, but she could give a rat’s ass about proper right now. Her father had decreed she’d marry Teague, so he could deal with the man in his house until they figured out what had happened. Micah laid him down on the bed, none too gently.

She didn’t comment on it, though good lord, she wanted to. “Run the plates. Find out who did this.”

“I will, Callie.” He managed to actually sound respectful this time, but she had bigger worries on her plate.

“And when Dr. Harris gets here, send him up.” She sat on the edge of the bed, not sure where to start. Should she take off his shirt? They probably shouldn’t have moved him at all because he could have some sort of spine injury, but leaving him on the side of the road wasn’t an option. She took a calming breath that did little to calm her.

What-if questions would do no good here. She had to deal in facts—facts she wouldn’t know until the doctor showed up.

Since there wasn’t much she could do, she called downstairs to have someone bring a bowl so she could start cleaning him up.

The door opened a few minutes later to reveal Emma. She shut it carefully behind her and crossed to the bed, every move efficient. She’d always been like this, to the point where being in the same room with her always calmed Callie down because Emma always seemed perfectly in control of her environment, even when she wasn’t in her kitchen domain. “Micah says this fiancé of yours is in a bad way. I brought ice.”

Ice. Of course. She should have thought of that herself. “Thank you, Emma.”

“No need to thank me. Let’s get this boy cleaned up.” She didn’t show an ounce of fear or worry as she looked Teague over with a critical eye, but no doubt she’d seen worse. When her father’s men were injured and brought back here, someone had to be capable and in control while they waited for the doctor to show up. Nine times out of ten, that task fell to Emma.

Callie filled the bowl with water and returned to the bed to find Emma scooping the ice into a cloth and folding it up. She glanced up. “Let’s get the blood off his face and then I’ll hold the ice while you do the rest.”

The woman’s no-nonsense tone calmed Callie’s racing thoughts. She could do this. One thing at a time. She dipped a washcloth into the water and started cleaning away the blood on Teague’s face. The swelling was alarming, and she hoped to God that nothing was broken. He groaned a little with each contact, but didn’t wake.

Emma placed the ice over the left side of his face. “Just keep breathing, Miss Callie.” She hesitated. “We appreciate what you’re doing—the sacrifice you’re making.” She took Callie’s hand and set it over the ice, and then stood. “I’ll go make sure the boys don’t give that doctor any hassle.”

Callie watched Emma go, her heart in her throat. If she’d needed the reminder of why she was doing this, it was embodied in Micah’s mother and the other people like her. People who depended on the Sheridans to keep them safe.

She took a deep breath and went back to cleaning Teague up, working her way down his throat and over the parts of his skin not covered by clothes. By the time the door opened to reveal Dr. Harris, she had most of the blood gone.