Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(46)

“They’re gonna be just fine,” I say, and when Fionn looks down his shoulder at me, I smile.

When we’re back in the house, I flop down on the couch, putting my cast up on the coffee table with a thunk and a sigh. I press my hands over my eyes as though it might help push all my thoughts back into the depths of my skull. It might have been a rocky start with man-guy in particular, but I realize now that they’re gone just how much their presence was a relief from tension that’s been filling the walls of this home. Tension that maybe only I feel. As much as I loved having Rowan and Sloane here, their absence has already shown me that it’s worse than I realized. I’m suffocating here, forced to sit with myself without all the chaos and distraction of a life on the road. And I don’t think it’s just a simple case of “itchy feet.” It’s not the familiar urge to get back on the road with the troupe when I’ve been off it for too long. It’s that I can’t get away from all the things I convinced myself I never wanted. Not when I’m encased in them.

A deep breath fills to the bottom of my lungs and releases in a frustrated whoosh.

“You all right?” Fionn asks from the kitchen, his voice wary.

“Yeah.”

“You sure …?”

“Totally positive.” I can feel him scrutinizing me from the other room. Fuck knows, the weight of his assessing stare on the back of my head does absolutely nothing but ratchet up the feeling of discomfort at least ten more notches. “It’s just this damn cast,” I mumble, which is a half-truth. My leg is itchy as fuck beneath the layers of fiberglass.

I just need a little relief. To let go of some of this pent-up tension. That’s all it is. I mean, who wouldn’t get cabin fever when they’re used to being on the road and performing every weekend?

With a huff of a sigh, I reach for one of Fionn’s metal crochet hooks and prop my leg back up on the coffee table. I shimmy the hooked end between my flesh and the cast, and then I scratch.

The relief is fucking delicious. Maybe one of the best things I’ve ever felt. And it’s not quite enough. The more I scratch, the more my skin craves it. The sensation of need spreads and I chase the relief with the tiny hook.

I hit a particularly itchy spot, tilt my head back, and moan.

“Rose,” Fionn barks from the kitchen.

I barely register when he repeats my name. “Occupied. Leave a message.”




“Rose, Christ alive.” I hear his quickened pace as he storms across the hardwood. I know what he’s about to do. So of course I double my efforts with the crochet hook.

“Stay away, McSpicy,” I say as I furiously shove the crochet hook beneath the cast and scratch my skin.

“It’s going to snap and cut you.”

“It’s metal.”

“You’re going to injure yourself.”

I bat Fionn’s hand away when he reaches for my wrist. “You won’t let me live off sugar alone. You keep trying to give me that green juice shit. Let me have something.”

“You could get an infection,” he snaps when he finally manages to catch my forearm. I whimper in protest as he pulls the crochet hook from my hand and tosses it out of reach onto the chair across from me.

“But I have pearls,” I say with a saccharine smile. My grin turns wicked when Fionn’s cheeks flush. He lets go of my wrist but still hovers behind the couch, his brows knit with a frown as he stares down at me. But there’s more than just his doctory judgment in his expression. There’s heat in his eyes, a flame that licks at my skin.

“They don’t last forever.”

“Some do.”

“Not these ones.”

“Shame.”

Fionn rolls his eyes, irritation deepening their shade of sapphire blue. I sink into the couch and puff a sharp breath upward to ruffle my bangs. The shallow creases that fan from the corners of his eyes smooth as his expression softens, just a little. “You can’t do that,” he says with a nod to the crochet hook as he comes around the end of the couch. “Even a small scratch could become a problem beneath the cast.”

“Yeah, Doc. I heard you the first fifty times.”

“This is the second time, technically, but who’s counting—”

“And logically speaking, I know that, but I’m willing to take the risk for a little relief,” I say as he stops before me. The rest I leave unsaid. That this is just a fleeting moment, a single scratch that will hardly satisfy me when my whole being seems consumed by discomfort. My flesh. My thoughts. Inside and out, I feel like I’m trapped, bound by layers and layers of tissue I can’t shed.

And maybe, for the first time, Fionn doesn’t just see it in me and pretend it doesn’t exist. “Okay,” is all he says, more to himself than to me, I think. He kneels between the couch and the coffee table, meeting my eyes only briefly, just long enough to ignite a heavy beat in my heart. He turns his focus to my leg, gently wrapping one hand around the layers of fiberglass that encase my ankle, his other sliding beneath the back of my knee. “Hold still.”

And then he leans in, his face so close to my thigh that his hair tickles my skin. He blows a long, thin thread of air beneath the edge of the cast. His breath is cool when it streams over my flesh. I swear I can feel it stir every individual hair that’s grown in the dark. My heart pounds in my ears. Can he sense it against his warm palm? Does it riot against his hand? Does he think about the reasons why it seems to double in pace when he sucks in a breath and blows another burst of air beneath my cast?