“Inhaling might not be the smartest idea.” He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, exhaling a stream of smoke that temporarily shielded his face from her. “I hear we’re going to be married.”
This was Teague O’Malley? She tensed, but he seemed content to stand in this dark alley with her and share his cigarettes. Now that she knew what to look for, she recognized the same coloring that his father and older brother had—sun-darkened skin and near-black hair. His dark eyes weren’t as cold as Seamus’s, but that didn’t comfort her in the least. All it meant was that he was a better liar than his father was. “What do you think about that?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what either of us thinks, does it?”
Her father knew how important it was not to undermine her authority now that she was the heir, and he was usually willing to sit down and hash things out with her before making a decision that would impact their family and business on multiple levels. A decision like choosing the man she was going to marry. But he hadn’t even consulted her. And she fully intended to find out why at the earliest available opportunity. It was too late to back out now. Not only would it insult the O’Malleys, who shared too much of their border to provoke into anything beyond the occasional skirmishes, but it’d further weaken a position that couldn’t afford to take any more hits. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
She tried her cigarette again, and this time the smoke went down smoother. Her head spun a bit, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, so she did it a third time, watching him out of the corner of her eye. She wanted to know why he’d followed her out here—if there was something he’d wanted to say that couldn’t be said in front of both their combined families—but he seemed content to enjoy his cigarette in silence. Maybe he’d needed the respite as much as she had?
The escape—from strategizing, from talking, from questioning—was a gift, no matter how strangely packaged. She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift further away with each exhale. All too soon, it’d be time to step back into the chaos and let the events neither of them could stop begin, but right now they were just two strangers, sharing a moment of silence.
Can we really be strangers if we’re already engaged?
She pushed the thought away, determined to enjoy this stolen moment in time before reality set back in. By the time she finished her cigarette, her hands had almost stopped shaking. She crushed the remaining bit under the toe of her sky-high heels and turned for the door.
Only to find her way blocked by Teague.
He was taller up close, well over six feet, and broader as well. The man looked like a bruiser, which was fitting because it was exactly what he was. He stared down at her with beautiful dark eyes, and her demand that he get out of her way died in her throat. While she was debating her options, he reached up, quick as a snake, and snagged the silk scarf around her neck. She made a grab at it, but it was too late.
Teague took a step closer, and then another, backing her against the wall, his eyes narrowing at her neck. “Show me.”
“Leave me alone.” Was that her voice, weak and wavering? She took a shuddering breath, all her hard-won calm disappearing. “Get out of my way.”
He kept going as if he hadn’t heard her, stopping less than an arm’s reach away. God, he seemed big this close up—bigger than Brendan, bigger than her brother had been. He cupped her chin, his grip painless but completely unmovable, and tilted her head back to bare her neck. “Who hurt you?” There was a promise of violence in every line of his body.
“No one.”
“Now, I may not be the smartest man in the world, Callista, but I know what the imprint of a man’s hands on a woman’s neck looks like.” His thumb moved, tracing the line of Brendan’s fingers that she could still feel digging into her skin. Teague’s touch didn’t hurt, though. It felt…almost good.
She swallowed, the move pressing her throat more firmly against his thumb. “I—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
She shivered under that unrelenting gaze, and licked her lips, all too aware of how he tracked the movement. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right. Because I’m going to kill the bastard.” He kept stroking her skin, his touch doing strange things to parts of her body that weren’t anywhere near her neck. “Tell me his name.”
She wouldn’t, even if the man who’d hurt her wasn’t already dead. Even in their messed-up world, murder was a last resort—something to be avoided at all costs—not something you did for a woman you barely knew. “No.”