Page 23 of Dark Succession (The O’Malleys #1)

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 sexy.

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 stop growing his list of people he wanted to keep safe, 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 dedicated 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.”

“Nope.” He pushed to his feet. “I don’t suppose you have any clothes that would come close to fitting me?”

She huffed out a breath. “You’re not going to be reasonable about this, are you?” When he didn’t answer, she threw up her hands. “Fine. I think I can scrounge up something. Try not to fall on your face while I’m gone.”

He waited until the door shut behind her to shuffle to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

As tempting as it was to ask for her help to wash off, he had too much pride for that shit.

He couldn’t follow through on any sort of desire right now, and it would be a damn shame to waste the opportunity if he got Callie in the shower.

Not to mention he had the feeling that she’d jump on any chance to get his ass back to bed, rather than standing by while he left the house.

No, he’d have to do this himself—and quickly.

Luckily, he was already mostly naked. He shucked off his underwear and carefully stepped beneath the hot water, gritting his teeth when it hit the cuts on his face.

He scrubbed himself down, taking the extra time to make sure all the dried blood was gone, and shut the water off.

The sound of Callie’s pacing reached him as he dried off, and he wrapped the towel around his waist before opening the door.

She turned, her hands on her hips. “You have a death wish.”

“More like a wish to be clean.” He caught sight of the clothes she’d dumped on the bed. Slacks and a buttondown—fitting attire for Mass. “Thanks.”

“Do you need help getting dressed?”

Even if he did, he wouldn’t admit it. Pride was a foolish thing, but he couldn’t shake it. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” She turned, her spine rigid. “Hurry up, then.”

He managed not to make a sound as he dressed—though twice he had to pause and wait for the black spots dancing across his vision to retreat—and he turned to the mirror when he was done, surprised that the clothes actually fit.

He started to ask where they’d come from, and decided maybe it was better he didn’t know.

If he was wearing her dead brother’s clothes…

Yeah, he sure as fuck didn’t need that information.

“They aren’t Ronan’s.”

He froze, not sure when she’d turned around. “I—”

“You had a look on your face like you thought you might be wearing a dead man’s clothes.” Her smile was mirthless. “You’re not. Even if they’d fit—which they wouldn’t—I donated them months ago. It was too hard… Never mind.”

He sighed, feeling like the world’s biggest ass.

She’d picked his unconscious body off the street, hauled him back here safely, obviously had a doctor see to him, and wasn’t standing in his way of leaving even though she didn’t approve.

He forced himself to stop and take a breath.

If her being worried about him made him uncomfortable, it was his damn problem. Not hers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This isn’t exactly the easiest of situations. You’re doing the best you can—we all are.” She motioned to the door, her face a perfect mask of politeness. “There’s a car waiting downstairs. You should go if you’re not going to be late.”

She was right, but he was loath to leave things like they were. He’d hurt her, whether he intended to or not. Teague stopped in front of her. “Thank you, angel. Last night you went above and beyond the call of duty. I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving my ass where they dropped me.”

Her eyes flashed, the blue extra vivid in her anger. “That’s a downright stupid thing to say, and you damn well know it. I might not have been the one to choose you, but you’re mine, Teague O’Malley, for better or worse.”

He kissed her, the barest brushing of lips, and then he walked out the door, a stupid grin pulling his lips up.

Even the throbbing of the left side of his face wasn’t enough to dim the strange joy her words had brought.

Because she’d as much as declared her intentions for him.

It shouldn’t have been surprising—they were getting married in three short weeks, after all, but there was a world of difference between going through the motions and declaring him hers .

Callie had done the latter.

The entire ride to Our Lady of Victories, he let himself soak that in. She wanted him. He’d known she wanted him physically, but now he knew she wanted him. That was so much easier to focus on than her worry. He relished that snap of anger, the possessiveness of her words.

But when they pulled to a stop, he forced himself to put that small happiness aside. There was business to attend to, and he couldn’t afford to be off his game because he was mooning over his fiancée.