The Marriage Contract(46)

The younger ones, like Micah? She suspected they’d hoped she’d pick one of them to marry, bringing them up in the ranks and avoiding the need to invite in an outsider. It was a shortsighted goal, but since none of them had openly spoke against her marriage, she hadn’t been forced to address it directly. Thank God. She didn’t have enough time or energy to deal with yet another mess.

Harris pulled out a pair of scissors and carefully cut away Teague’s shirt and pants. He paused, but left his underwear. She could have told him it wasn’t necessary, but she couldn’t force the words out, not when all she could focus on was the mass of bruises darkening the skin she’d just spent hours worshipping. “Oh, Teague.”

The doctor continued his careful poking and prodding, and part of her was grateful Teague wasn’t awake for it since there was no way it didn’t hurt. From his little suitcase, he pulled out what looked like an ultrasound machine and went to work on Teague’s stomach, where the majority of the bruises were concentrated, watching the screen with a small frown on his face. He finally sat back with a sigh. “I won’t know for sure without a few more tests, but it looks like he came off relatively lucky.”

Lucky? “How bad is it?”

“Lots of bruises and swelling, and I suspect a few bruised ribs, but nothing seems to be broken and there isn’t any internal bleeding. I’ll need to see him in about a week, though don’t hesitate to call if it looks like he’s getting worse.”

She waited, but it didn’t look like there was more forthcoming. “That’s it?”

He smiled, reaching out to pat her hand. “As long as he takes it easy, he should make a full recovery.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you, Dr. Harris. I really appreciate you rushing over here.”

“Of course, Callista.” He frowned. “Are you getting enough sleep? You look exhausted.”

She tried for a smile. “It’s nothing. I’m just a bit stressed.”

His frown deepened. “Stress can do a significant amount of harm. Whatever’s going on can wait—you have to take care of yourself first.”

Easier said than done. She wished it was as easy as jaunting off on a vacation and recharging, but that wasn’t an option. Her father and her people needed her. Hell, right now, Teague needed her. She smoothed back the matted hair on his head. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Would you like me to prescribe you some sleeping aids? It’s not a long-term solution, but it may help you get to the other side of whatever you’re dealing with.”

She started to demur before she noticed the stubborn look on his face. He wasn’t going to leave before he had some sort of assurance that she’d take his advice. Callie sighed. “I’d like that very much.” She wouldn’t use the pills, though. She didn’t deserve the peaceful slumber of someone with a clean conscience. More than that—as if that wasn’t reason enough—she couldn’t risk some threat arising while she was knocked out and her being unable to deal with it.

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.