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“Yeah.” I frown. “Why?”

“Got something on the dude she apparently skipped town with.”

I know I’m not going to like this.

“Name is Headley Stymes, and it seems that the bastard is FBI.”

Fuck.

TWENTY-FOUR

lucie

There’sblood on the cuff of Callahan’s shirt when he gets back. He stares at me as Declan rolls his eyes and clicks his fingers at Arnold whose head’s in my lap, the kitten curled up beside him.

Arnold makes a low growling sound, but when Declan holds up his leash, his head pops up and he scrambles to get off my lap. He races across the living room, pausing only to rub against Callahan, who scratches his ears. The man’s so gentle sometimes, it tugs at all the soft parts of me.

Torin steps out of the study and hands an iPad to Callahan. Clawzilla leaps onto the floor, almost floating, he’s so little. He skids on the polished hardwood as his little legs get tangled in his race to get to Arnold.

“This damn thing. Are you sure it isn’t a rat…” Torin holds up the indignant feline, “in a diamond collar?”

Callahan stalks over and plants a hand on either side of where I’m seated on the sofa. “You got the rat thing a diamond collar?”

“And one for Arnold, to be fair,” Declan calls out as he leads Arnold, clipped to his leash, down the stairs. “See ya!”

“Everyone in this fucking place has lost their minds and I blame you, love,” he says in a low voice. “What do you think I should do about it?”

But there’s a warmth in his voice and my stomach flip-flops, right as he smooths a hand against my cheek, the bloody cuff right there. In my face.

It’s not a speck.

It’s soaked.

“Something happen?” I ask with a lift of my brow, pointing at the stained fabric.

“Someone pissed me the fuck off. I dealt with it.” He drags me up off the sofa and kisses me. He backs me out of the room as he strips off his jacket. Then he drags me to the banister where he devours me, not caring which of his brothers see.

And I don’t, either, not with that pierced tongue in my mouth, licking at me, suckling my tongue and making my knees dissolve and my pussy ache and heat and throb.

“Wait here or we won’t be going anywhere.”

He suddenly leaves me sagging against the banister and takes the stairs two at a time.

I wipe a shaking hand over my mouth, trying to find the strength to stand properly when someone clears their throat. Grabbing the railing, I flip around.

“Callahan’s gonna be asking you some questions,” Seamus says, leaning against the wall opposite me, a glass of what smells like whiskey in his hand. He takes a sip. There’s blood on him, too, on the front of his shirt, like he was hit with a spray of it.

And I know, sickeningly, that Callahan did the killing. Or the hurting, but something about Callahan tells me he’s more likely to kill than just punch someone out. He isn’t a hair-trigger kind of guy. He’s way worse. Cold, calculating, measured.

Deadly as they come.

My father’s a monster, too, I think, but a different sort. One who might not have killed often with his own hands, but one who’s killed through orders and directives.

I don’t know which is worse. If oneisworse.

But with Callahan and the Murphys, violence is part of their lives. An everyday part. Ingrained in them.

I think—no, I know—I married a bad man, a very bad one.