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.
Chapter Eleven
James 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