Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(34)

RENEGADE


Rose



Fionn’s sitting in the armchair, a bag of disgusting-looking dehydrated vegetable chips in his lap, his crochet project tucked at his side, his legs crossed at the ankles on the ottoman as a new reality-dating show plays on his TV. His shorts come just above the knee but they’ve ridden higher with the way he’s sitting. Since when have I been attracted to a guy’s legs? Since now, I guess. His are all tanned and muscly with just the right amount of hair that’s bleached from all his time running in the sun. I want to touch them. But of course, I don’t. I also want to tell him that it’s so fucking sexy that he’s sitting here with his yarn not even hiding the fact that he’s as into Surviving Love as I am. Why is that sexy? I have no fucking idea. But here we are.

“Val and Mitchell better win this thing, or I’m going to be pissed,” he says as his favorite couple appears on the screen.

I tamp down a grin, pretending to focus on my own crochet project, which I guess will be a sex swing after all because why not? Sandra called the other day to let me know that her husband was making me a frame, even though it’s probably not going to see much use since I’m on the driest dry spell ever. “I think Dani and Renegade are going to win.”

Fionn snorts. “Renegade. What kind of a fucking douchebag name is that?”

“A made-up one.”

“My point exactly. He deserves to lose for the name alone.”

“Hate it all you want, Doc. He’s still going to win.”

Fionn gives me a piercing glare and I grin. God, I love that expression on him, when his eyes go lethal, their blue darkening to a deeper hue. There’s a hunter in there somewhere. I just know it. I can imagine him letting that beast out to play. Chasing me. Catching me. Holding me down and tearing my clothes and—

A notification comes through on Fionn’s phone, a sound I don’t recognize. He whips it from the side table and frowns at the screen. A look of shock passes over his face and he darts to his feet, scattering his dried veggies across the floor.

“Fucking Barbara,” he hisses.

I grab a crutch and hop up onto my good foot. “Yeah, fucking Barbara. Let’s fuck her up,” I say, whipping my knife from the sheath at my back. “Who’s Barbara?”

“The raccoon.”

I blink at him as Fionn pockets his phone and strides to the table to grab his truck keys. “Aww, I don’t want to fuck her up. She sounds cute.”

“Trust me, she’s not so cute when she’s gotten into the medication cabinet. Or the break room. Or basically anywhere.” Fionn marches to the door and throws it open, then turns to give me a questioning look over his shoulder. “Well? Are you coming or what?”




He smiles, and it’s so bright, so beautiful, maybe even just a little bit unhinged, that I feel like I’m lit from the inside. I sheathe my knife and grab my other crutch and hobble toward him. His grin grows even more magnetic, a feat that doesn’t seem possible. I pass him to step onto the landing, and before I can attempt the stairs, he sweeps me up with a strong arm across my waist and doesn’t set me down until we’re next to the truck.

“She might look cute,” he says as he helps me up into the vehicle, “but don’t let her deceive you. She’ll tear your face off to get what she wants.”

I force a mischievous grin as he settles my injured leg into the footwell, trying not to think about what it might be like for him to toss me around when he lifts me so effortlessly, or what his hands might feel like gripped so tightly to my hips that he leaves fingerprints on my skin. “Are you talking about me, or the raccoon?”

Fionn huffs. “Both, probably. So I guess you’ll be evenly matched.”

He tosses my crutches onto the back seat and jogs around to the driver’s side, throwing the truck into reverse the moment it’s started so he can peel out of the driveway with a squeal of tires.

“So, how did you come to name a raccoon Barbara, anyway?” I ask as we turn onto Main Street.

“Kind of randomly, to be honest. It just seemed to suit her.”

“Any idea how the hell she’s getting into the clinic?”

“Witchcraft is my guess,” Fionn says as we watch a pair of state troopers drive in the opposite direction. We turn off Main Street and onto Stanley Drive, the side street where the clinic is located. I twist in my seat and watch as the troopers continue on their path. “They must be opening the search for Eric at Humboldt Lake. From what I heard, that’s his favorite fishing spot.”

I swallow. “Where’d you hear that, exactly?”

“One of the search volunteers. He came to my clinic yesterday.” Though I’m not looking at him, I can feel Fionn’s eyes bore into the side of my face. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“The shopkeeper at Shireton. He saw me and Eric talking when Eric bought bullets and I bought my knife. He knew Eric wasn’t about to go fishing.”

“Gerald. Yeah, I know him.” Fionn’s hand is a sudden warmth over mine, and I search his face when he breaks his gaze from the road to glance at me. “If Gerald was going to say something, he would have done it by now. Of anyone who could have drawn a connection between you and Eric, he’s probably the least likely to bring that to the cops. He plays by the rules, but it doesn’t mean he has any fondness at all for law enforcement. It’ll be okay.”