Page 54 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

SOPHIA

D awn is creeping through my closed bedroom curtains by the time I fall asleep, lifting the shadows of the room from charcoal to pearl gray. I rest for only an hour or so before the alarm goes off, blasting me into consciousness with the finesse of a sledgehammer to the skull.

I slap at the nightstand until the noise cuts off, then lie there blinking at the ceiling, heart racing, mouth dry.

My body feels as if it’s been run over by a truck, but my mind is already sprinting through resignation letters, Brittany’s crying face, Nick’s disappearing act, and the thousand implications tangled in all of it.

I rise, shower, and dress with the motions of a zombie. Shuffling downstairs, I don’t have time to properly adjust myself to my new reality before it slaps me smartly across my face.

Brittany sits at my kitchen table contentedly eating scrambled eggs.

Across from her sits Harlow, staring at her from under lowered brows like a cat sizing up the rambunctious new household puppy.

My mother is at the stove, humming the vintage Madonna tune “Papa Don’t Preach,” a song about an unwed pregnant teenager seeking acceptance for her decision to keep her baby.

“Good morning.”

Brittany jumps, then starts choking on her eggs. Harlow watches her hopefully for a moment before giving in and grudgingly pounding her on her back.

“Perfect timing!” says my mother, turning with the frying pan in hand. “I just made more eggs. Sit.”

I have two choices. I can either make a break and run for it, choosing, like Nick, to disappear into the ether and never be seen again—a very appealing option—or I can do as instructed and sit at the table with my daughter and her wicked stepmother. Almost wicked stepmother.

We’re going to have to find another name for her.

Too fatigued to flee, I take the chair across from Brittany and wonder how early is too early in the morning to start drinking.

My mother sets a plate in front of me, then scoops a heap of eggs onto it. Returning to the stove, she ditches the pan, then dances over to the toaster. In goes two slices of wheat bread. She turns back with a sweet smile that immediately makes me suspicious.

If she put rat poison in Brittany’s eggs, I’m not one hundred percent sure if I’ll scold or high-five her. Could go either way at this point.

When the doorbell rings, I groan. “If that’s another problem, I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m going to light this house on fire and dance in the ashes.”

“Excuse me, but I’m not dead yet.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rising, I cross to the front door and peer suspiciously through the peephole.

A man stands on my porch. He’s tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a beautiful navy-blue suit fitted snugly across his broad shoulders. His white dress shirt is open at the throat, revealing a strong, tanned neck. Though we’ve never met, I instantly recognize him.

I’ve seen enough pictures in the media to be familiar.

I pull open the door and look him up and down, taking in his royal presence and general air of superiority. “Callum McCord. What are you doing here?”

Carter’s oldest brother holds out the paper to-go cup in his hand. “Almond milk shouldn’t be called milk. It’s not dairy. It should be called what it is: nut juice.”

His voice is deep. His gaze is intense. His square jaw is covered in scruff. He smells like exotic vacations and boatloads of money and carries himself like a king.

“Except no reasonable person would order a latte with nut juice from a sniggering teenage cashier, which the almond milk marketing team obviously knew.”

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking how he knows how I like my coffee, I take the cup from his hand, step out onto the porch, and pull the door closed behind me.

“So. Is this visit in a professional capacity or are you here to kidnap me and lock me in your basement?”

I’m gratified when he blinks and pulls his dark brows down into a frown.

“Your brother told me how you met your wife.”

“Did he now?” Callum drawls, looking amused. But also a little murderous. I can’t tell if that’s just his usual expression, though, so I nod.

“The words ‘Stockholm’ and ‘syndrome’ were used. You should know that I’d make a terrible captive, though.

I’m very uncooperative when I’m bored, and I never cry unless I run out of chardonnay.

I also talk back, bite when provoked, and demand snacks on a strict schedule. You’d give up before lunch.”

My sarcasm is completely lost on him. He says evenly, “I’m not here to kidnap you,” as if it was actually an option in the first place. “I’m here to talk about you and Carter.”

I’m not sure if he’s about to warn me to stay away from him or try to convince me in person what his father tried over the phone, but either way, I’m instantly irritated.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Carter broke up with me. And no, I’m not interested in his job. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“He’s in love with you,” he interrupts, dismissing my protests with an imperious wave that reminds me very much of my mother.

I say tartly, “You missed the part where I said he broke up with me. It doesn’t matter if he’s in love with me or not.”

“No? What about the part where you said you love him ? Does that matter? Because you sounded pretty convincing.” He pretends to think, glancing up at the sky. “What was it you said? Oh yes, I remember.”

He looks at me again, blasting me with the full weight of his stare. “‘Don’t you dare talk that way about the man I love.’ You sounded pretty worked up too. Pissed off and protective. Almost like you meant it.”

The challenge in his tone makes my irritation flare into anger. I take a swallow of the coffee to try to control my temper.

“You were listening in on my call with your father?”

“Yes.”

“That was a violation.”

“No, that was a test.”

“A test ?” I snap, my chest growing hot at the implications. “Of what?”

“Your loyalty.”

I gape at him in disbelief until he adds arrogantly, “You passed. Congratulations.”

Carter puts on an act like he thinks he’s the king of Earth, but I can tell this guy actually believes he’s the center of the universe. Growing up with him must have been a nightmare.

“I don’t need your approval to feel something for your brother, and I also don’t need to stand on my own porch and defend myself. This conversation is over. Thank you for the coffee, and have a nice—”

“Carter slept in his car last night. Across the street in front of the house with the yellow front door.”

Startled, I glance at the house across the street. Two down from my own, it’s a charming bungalow with a thicket of star jasmine climbing up a trellis around the bay window in front.

“Slept in his car ?”

When I glance back at Callum, he nods.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

A faint look of irritation crosses his perfect features, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. Or maybe he’s just annoyed that I’m questioning his authority.

“I know everything. The point is, he’s going to do it again tonight and again tomorrow night. And if you discover him and chase him off, he’ll buy another anonymous beat-up jalopy to camp out in and find another nearby spot to do his lovelorn emo vampire routine through all eternity.”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but I do know that this conversation is getting on nerves I never even knew I had.

Aggressively swallowing more coffee, I stare at Callum over the paper rim of the cup while I deliberate the situation.

As if I’m taking up too much of his precious time, the asshole looks at his watch.

His giant, glittering, gold-and-diamond encrusted abomination of a watch that most likely cost more than my house and is clearly meant to remind its owner of the inferiority of the common folk every time he glimpses it and imbue in the observer a sense of awe paired with despair that they’ll never be able to afford such an extraordinary timepiece.

Carter doesn’t wear a watch.

I bet if he did, though, it wouldn’t be something that screamed Look at me—I have a yacht and no soul .

My voice tight, I say, “Carter made his choice.”

“He made a mistake. You’re allowed to be angry—”

“Really? Gee, thank you. I’m so relieved you’re giving me permission to feel my own feelings!”

“—but he only did it to protect you. It’s not what he wants.”

I glower at him. “You know, Callum, I’ve had my fair share of ridiculous conversations lately, including that fake one with your dad yesterday that you eavesdropped on, but I can honestly tell you that this one takes the fucking cake.”

I step closer to him, pointing my finger at his chest. “You have the audacity to come here, to my home , a man I’ve never met and who by all accounts is as ruthless and unkind as his father, to try to lecture me about my relationship with his brother—”

“This isn’t a lecture. It’s a request.”

“Cut me off mid-sentence again and you won’t live long enough to request anything.”

A hint of amusement twinkles in the depths of his dark eyes, but he doesn’t smile. He simply inclines his head in acknowledgement, then continues, his tone more gentle.

“Don’t let Carter push you away. It’s easier for him to believe you’re better off without him than to believe that he’s worthy of your love.”

He inspects my face, then says softly, “Which you already know, don’t you?”

My throat is closing as if a hand were wrapped around it and squeezing hard. I glance away, sipping more coffee and remembering the pain etched on Carter’s face when he told me he didn’t want children because he thought he was too broken. Remembering his voice, so full of self-loathing.

And realizing that though my first impression of Callum is that he might be a smug rich prick, he’s also looking out for his brother. That, at least, is admirable.

All my anger drains out of me, leaving me feeling even more tired than when I woke up.

“I owe you an apology.”

Callum seems surprised by that. “For what?”