The Marriage Contract(50)

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 keep his list of people he wanted to keep safe from growing, 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 insane 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 button-down—fitting attire for Mass. “Thanks.”

“Do you need help getting dressed?”

Even if he did, he wouldn’t admit it. Pride was 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.”