Chapter 11 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 doing nothing to calm his mind. He didn't want this shit any more than Teague seemed to, but at least the other man was taking steps to put it to a stop. He sighed. The time for indecision was over. They had to find the girl. The door to the pub opened and a group of men streamed through, Ricky in the center of them. Their voices cut through the relative quiet of the room, their laughter too loud and too sharp. Ricky lifted his hand. "Tommy, we're celebrating! First round's on the house." What. The. Fuck? There was nothing to celebrate. He straightened, his fingers tightening around the glass. They were acting suspiciously like they were coming off a successful hit, but he knew for a fact he hadn't ordered one. He finished his whiskey and got up, moving slowly to the bar to set the glass down, leaning there while he listened to the men at Ricky's table. "Fuck, that guy hit hard." Ricky laughed. "Not for long. Did you see the look on that bitch's face when we dropped him? I think she pissed her tiny little running shorts." More laughter all around. James turned, waiting for them to realize he was there. He could rush over and start demanding answers, but one of the few useful things he'd learned from his old man was that how you entered a situation determined whether you'd come out on top or bottom. These were his men and his brother, and as great as it'd be to pretend that this was a perfect world where the men would always respect him, that wasn't how things worked. Love and fear were the only two emotions that forged loyalty, and he knew better than to aim for the former. The man facing the bar noticed him first, his left eye swollen nearly shut. James couldn't place his name-any of their names aside from his brother-but the man knew him. He went silent. The guy next to him turned to see what he was looking at, and paled. It went like that around the table, until Ricky was the only one still laughing and bragging. His littler brother finally looked over and his grin widened. "Here to celebrate, James?" Another tumbler of whiskey showed up at his elbow, courtesy of Tommy. He picked it up, fighting to keep relaxed. He knew from dealing with Brendan and their old man that there was nothing scarier than the eerie calm that preceded an explosion of violence. He hoped like hell that he wouldn't have to go there tonight, but Ricky was oblivious to the men exchanging leery glances around him. "What are we celebrating?" "We whooped that O'Malley douche's ass." Ricky laughed, too loud in the now-silent room. "You should have seen his face. That pussy went down and didn't get back up again." Motherfucker. He watched any chance of peace slide down the drain, along with his ability to walk away from his brother tonight. He had to make an example of him. Goddamn it. James pushed off the bar. "You beat Teague O'Malley." Ricky's smile melted off his face, as if he was just now realizing there was danger. "He insulted our family." The idiot never stopped to consider why an O'Malley would be walking away from one of their pubs without a scratch on him. His younger brother didn't have the vicious streak that had made Brendan a force of nature, but he was shaping up to be just as stupid when it came to thinking things through. James met each of the men's gazes at the table in turn. "Get the fuck out." He raised his voice slightly. "Everyone get the fuck out. Now." No one questioned the order, and they scattered faster than he would have credited. Then there was only him and Ricky. He wasted no time grabbing the front of his brother's shirt and hauling him out of his chair. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" "Get your hands off me." Instead, he shook Ricky. "Answer the goddamn question." "He was on our turf!" Disgusted, James shoved him back into the chair hard enough that it almost toppled over backward. "And you never stopped to think that maybe there was a reason for that, did you? He was here to meet with me so we could attempt to resolve this shit peacefully." "Peacefully." Ricky's lip curled. "Those fuckers spit in our face. They deserve to pay." "You sound like our old man." "Maybe because he's got some balls. Brendan did, too." He made a show of looking James up and down. "The old man is right-you're as much a pussy as the O'Malleys and Sheridans. Even more so, because at least they're willing to fight." The decision played out before James, lightning fast. He could yell at his fool brother and hope to God it was enough to make him see reason. Or he could make damn sure Ricky never crossed him again. He was the heir now. He couldn't afford to spend the rest of his life cleaning up his brother's messes, or worse, constantly looking over his shoulder. Fear or love. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. It was painfully obvious that love wouldn't do it-hadn't done it despite the fact that they'd always been close. The only way to stop this shit in its tracks was to cut it off at the source. He hauled Ricky out of his seat again and dragged the struggling man toward the back room. His brother realized their destination and fought harder. "What the hell? Jesus, James, I was just screwing with you. Stop. Holy shit, stop." James shoved him through the door and followed him inside, kicking it shut behind him, feeling like he tore off a ragged chunk of his soul in the process. He took a deep breath, the scent of old blood and fear almost enough to make him gag. "I don't give a fuck if you hate every damn decision I'm making, you don't move without my permission. Hell, you don't even breathe unless I give the okay. You got it?" "Yeah, James. I get it. I swear I do." His brother nodded frantically, his hands still outstretched as if that would really save either of them from what was coming. James rolled his shoulders. "You know the drill, Ricky. Canes or the whip?" Teague woke up in waves of pain. He felt like a train had hit him-maybe two. It hurt to breathe, and he had no illusions about the fun times ahead when he actually moved. He cracked open his eyes, finding himself in a dim room that he'd never seen before. He looked around as much as possible without moving his head, taking in the delicate four-poster bed and white canopy that wouldn't look out of place in a fairy tale. Everything was white-the dresser, the vanity, the walls. "You're awake." He gritted his teeth and turned his head to see Callie standing in the doorway that seemed to lead into a bathroom. Fuck, that hurt. "I thought I might be in heaven, but now I'm sure." She gave a tired smile. "At least you still have your charm." "I have more than that. Come here and-" He winced at the sharp pain that shot through him when he lifted his arm. "On second thought, maybe I'll just lie here." "Smart." She crossed to carefully sit on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?" "That's a stupid question." She rolled her eyes. "I know you're in pain, but do you feel like you're going to be sick? Or dizzy?" Signs of a concussion. He took careful stock, because while being tough was great for impressing the people around him, it wouldn't do him any good if he passed out the second he sat up. "No. My face feels like someone took a two-by-four to it, and I'm pretty sure those assholes kicked me once I was down, but nothing more serious than that." "That's plenty serious." He'd dealt with worse, albeit not often. Teague looked around the room again. "Not that I'm complaining, exactly, how but did I get here?" "You don't remember?" He didn't remember anything after that coward hit him in the back of the head. From the state of his body, they must have kept beating him for a while, and then transported him somewhere. There was no other reason for him being in what he figured must be Callie's room. "I suspect I was unconscious at the time." She looked away, twisting at the edge of the comforter. "You were dumped in front of me by an SUV registered to Ricky Halloran." "Fuck." He closed his eyes, trying to get a hold of his anger. That little shit had always been a troublemaker, even if he was nowhere near as dangerous as Brendan. Or he hadn't been. It looked like he was gunning for the rep, and he wasn't smart enough to pull it off without getting himself killed. Jumping Teague in Halloran territory right after he met with James? Dumping Teague's unconscious body from his own goddamn SUV? He was an idiot. 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. 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. He stepped onto the sidewalk and merged with the small crowd making their way inside. A murmur went up in the people around him, and they stepped back as he climbed the stairs. He was used to getting more than his fair share of attention-most of the parish knew what his family did for money-but his face must have appeared worse than he'd thought. His youngest brother, Devlin, stood at the top of the stone steps, brows raised. "You look like you had an eventful night." Trust Devlin to understate things without rushing down to ask if he was okay. "You could call it that." "Father isn't pleased." Of that he had no doubt. "Is he ever?" Devlin fell into step with him as they walked into church. Despite how bittersweet he found attending Mass, Our Lady of Victories was a sort of second home to Teague with its old-world architecture and feel-like stepping into the past. They stopped in the second pew, the one that was designated for the family despite their never officially being assigned seats. But, every Sunday, it was empty and waiting. Sloan looked up as he slid in next to her, and gasped quietly. Sometimes it seemed like she did everything quietly-a mouse who did her best to stay out of the spotlight of their parents' attention. She put her hand on his forearm, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you okay?" "Right as rain." "Liar." He met her dark eyes, so similar to his own. "I'll be okay. Promise." "You can't promise that, and you know it." She sat back and stared forward, her eyes shining in a way he was all too familiar with. He wanted to say or do something to comfort her, but she was right-he couldn't promise shit. It seemed like he was destined to piss off and upset every woman he cared about that he came in contact with today. He sighed, grateful when the priest began speaking. With the ease of long practice, he intoned the words and fell into the old familiar motions. Sloan had always been the most sensitive of his siblings, and he hated causing her any kind of pain, but he was stuck. Fuck, he was up to his neck and sinking fast. He wasn't even aware that Devlin was moving until he slipped behind Teague and nudged him to the end of the aisle. He wrapped his arm around their sister, leaning down to murmur something in her ear. Devlin was the best of them all. He'd thought it before, but it only became clearer as time went on. His youngest brother always knew what to say or do to defuse a situation or comfort someone who was upset. Teague should have thought that maybe Sloan needed a shoulder to lean on, even if he couldn't say the words that would make everything okay. But he hadn't. It hadn't even crossed his mind. Just another way he'd failed his siblings. He was still embroiled in his internal torment when the sermon wound to an end. Ignoring his family, he stood and walked out of the church, needing fresh air. No, he needed a whole hell of a lot more than fresh air. But taking a second to breathe was all he could accomplish in this moment, so that was what he did. Knowing someone would come looking for him before too long, he circled around the corner and stopped beneath the nearest tree. Shit. As much as he'd like to blame his current pounding headache on the beating last night, it wasn't the truth. "Smoke?" He looked up, already knowing whom he'd see. "What are you doing here?" Finch shrugged and passed over a cigarette. "Maybe I'm praying for my immortal soul." "Sure." He snorted and lit up. It had been a while since his last cigarette, and he closed his eyes for a second to savor his first inhalation. "Who tuned up your face?" Teague flashed him a look. "Why? Are you going to get off your ass and arrest them?" "I think I'm detecting some bitterness." Finch laughed softly, not looking the least bit sorry. "You know we value you." Maybe. Maybe not. But the one thing he did know was that they valued their asses more. There was some deeper game being played by the feds right now, but hell if he knew what it was. Teague inhaled again. "I'd hate to think you're sitting back and waiting for shit to hit the fan so you can mop the whole lot of us up." Finch froze. He recovered almost instantly, but it was too late. Teague knew. He huffed out a laugh, and once he started, he couldn't stop. "Oh God, you are. That's the funniest shit I've heard all day." Even though he'd suspected he wouldn't get any help from them, it was something else altogether to know it for sure. He laughed again and shook his head. "You really are a bastard, Finch." "See you around." He moved off, slipping into a doorway of a business further down the block mere seconds before someone called Teague's name. He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe and turned. As shitty as it was to realize he couldn't count on the feds to help him out, it was better to know now rather than later-when he might actually be relying on them. Or that's what he told himself, even though part of him threatened to wallow in despair. He was well and truly on his own. In "Accidentally Seduced the Billionaire Heir After Betrayal" by CrushReel, a tale of romance and revenge unfolds as our protagonist faces the aftermath of her husband's betrayal. After three years of separation, she uncovers a shocking truth: her estranged husband has fathered a child with his mistress. 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