Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy #3)

Scratch

SCRATCH

Rose

I hobble to the door in Rowan and Sloane’s wake as they head out onto the porch of Fionn’s house and turn to say goodbye. The sun illuminates the speckled black marks beneath Sloane’s eyes. The boot print in the center of her forehead is an angry stamp of purple. I wanna hunt down the motherfucker who hurt her and rekill him, whoever the hell he was. But despite her obviously painful injuries and her flighty vibes when she glances at the neighbors three doors down, I can tell. This woman is happy . At least, as happy as she’ll let herself be. For now.

And her Shitflicker man-guy? He’s over the fuckin’ moon . Hopelessly in love. Ready to get the hell out of here and look after his woman. So it’s no surprise that it’s Rowan who kicks off the departure.

“See you around, Rose,” he finally says. His wary gaze rakes over my face. I narrow my eyes at him, but I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling.

“I’m sure you will. Drive safe, Shitflicker.”

“Listen here, ya little banshee—”

“ Rowan ,” Sloane hisses as she wallops him in the stomach with her good arm. My grin begs to ignite.

“She beat me with her crutch , Blackbird.”

“And then you ate three helpings of her waffles this morning and single-handedly drained her maple syrup supply. I think you’ll survive, pretty boy.”

Rowan shrugs, but there’s a spark in his eyes as they slide to where Fionn stands just behind me. “I needed the calories. I had a busy night. Playing sports .” Rowan lets the innuendo linger like a barb before he cackles a laugh. A deep blush creeps across Sloane’s swollen cheeks. Satisfied, he drapes an arm across Sloane’s back before he presses a gentle kiss to her temple. “Come on, love. We’ve got a long drive ahead. Rose, it was good meeting you. Keep my little brother safe with that crutch, all right?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, and with a nod, Rowan turns his gaze toward his brother, his expression softening.

Fionn steps around me, laying a hand on my arm to ensure I don’t wobble on my crutches as he passes close to me. He probably doesn’t notice the electric hum that travels beneath my skin in that momentary touch. I bet he doesn’t register the way I glance down just as his hand lifts away. For him, it probably wasn’t even a thought to touch me, just an action. A sleight of hand. A magic trick. So fast and so simple that I could have imagined it. But when I meet Sloane’s eyes, I know she saw it. There’s a spark in her bloodshot gaze. A little dimple peeks out at me next to her faint smile.

My gaze is still lingering on Sloane when Fionn says, “I’ll miss you, brother. Maybe next time you should come for a simple visit. No drama. No … shenanigans.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun at all,” Rowan replies as the two men clasp each other in a tight hug. When they separate, Rowan’s hand folds over the back of his brother’s neck, and they press their foreheads together. “Thank you for looking after my girl.”

Fionn nods, and with a final round of goodbyes, they head to their rental car. We’re alone once more. Just me and the doc. Standing side by side on his porch. The car slides away into the morning sun, as pretty as a sweet fairy-tale ending. The couple three doors down watches too, then turns and waves at us. We wave back.

For a flash, I can see it. My own fairy-tale ending. A quaint little house. A happy little life. My own little bit of magic.

But it’s just that. A flash. A little trick. Because that’s a life not meant for someone like me.

“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?

“Does that help?” Fionn asks, and when I don’t say anything, he glances up at me. I give a faint nod. But I think it’s a lie. I don’t think it helps at all. I think it makes everything worse. If he realizes that my gesture is untruthful, he doesn’t say. He just watches, taking in the details of my face. His eyes have turned black, the pupils blown. As though he can’t keep his gaze on me any longer, he turns away and blows again beneath my cast. “I know it’s not as effective as my crochet hook,” he says as he shoots me a chastising smile over his shoulder, “but it’s the safest way.”

I don’t want to tell him that he’s making it worse. Or that it’s making other things worse.

My core clenches. I try not to squirm in my seat. But I can’t help it, not when Fionn’s thumb absentmindedly coasts over the tender flesh of my knee as he blows another steam of air beneath my cast. My thigh tenses, and I shift my hips, moving slowly in the hope that he won’t notice, because I don’t want him to stop. Even if it makes me nearly mindless with the need for more. Even though I’m just a patient or a friend in his eyes. Even if I know it’s only going to hurt more when he lets go.

He blows into my cast. Again. And again. And again. I shift my hips and brace my hands on the seat of the couch, but don’t even realize I’m doing it. My flesh is on fire. My center throbs, screaming at me in a demand for more than I’m able to give. I should put a stop to this. But I can’t seem to form a single word, not when Fionn’s hand is warm on my leg. Not when his breath stirs every sensation in my skin.

Fionn turns to face me, my ankle and knee still in his grasp. His eyes drop from mine, and I feel the caress of his gaze on the side of my neck, then on my chest. I realize only now that it’s heaving with rapid breaths, as though I’ve just run a race. I swallow and his attention returns to my throat before lifting to my parted lips.

His voice is low. Quiet. There’s maybe even an accusation in it when he asks, “Are you okay?”

Every time I want to bury myself deeper in that same cocoon that seems to smother me, he tears through it. When I want to lie, I find that I can’t. The best I can seem to do is to leave out the truth. But this time, it feels like there is nowhere to run. Not with the way he watches every nuance of my body. I’ve already given away more than I could ever hide.

“No,” I whisper as I shake my head. “Not really.”

He doesn’t look surprised by my answer. And if it’s a reply he doesn’t want to receive, he doesn’t let on about that either. Nothing in his expression has changed. He still holds my leg as though he might simply turn back to his task and breathe this torture across my skin. “Is it not helping?” he asks.

“No. It’s not.”

He nods, as though this is the answer he expected. “What would?”

I could say the crochet hook. Or cutting the cast off. Or enough alcohol to knock me unconscious. I look down at his hand on my thigh, then back to his eyes. “Not that,” is all I can muster.

Fionn’s eyes are lightless. I feel as though I’m ensnared by them. Like there’s no way I can free myself. And the way he looks at me? It’s as though I’m exactly where he wants me—pinned by his unflinching stare. “What would help, Rose?” he finally asks.

We watch each other. The connection between us never breaks. Not as I lift my hand from where it’s gripped to the edge of the couch. Not as I slide my fingertips down my short skirt, not as they trace my thigh. Not as I lay my hand on Fionn’s. At first, I think nothing about him has changed. But then I see it, the quickening pulse in the artery that lines his neck, the subtle tightening of the corded muscles of his shoulders.

He could stop me. But he doesn’t.

I wrap my fingers around the edge of his hand. I don’t take my eyes from Fionn’s as I slide his palm up my thigh, inch by agonizing inch. The world around us falls away. The only thing I see is him as I guide his touch across my flesh.

His attention doesn’t stray from my face, not as my motion pushes up the hem of my skirt and our hands climb higher. Not when I slide his fingertips over the lace edge of my panties. Not even when I move at an excruciatingly slow pace to draw his hand down to my center, where the fabric is warm and damp. Only then do I stop, my hand pressed over Fionn’s, my clit throbbing with need beneath his touch.

He still doesn’t look down. I don’t know what will happen when I lift my palm away. Maybe he’ll stop. Tell me how this is a terrible idea. He’s my doctor. He’s invited me into his house out of the kindness of his heart. He’s tried to help me, but this isn’t what he had in mind. I fully expect that response.

But that’s not what happens.

Fionn’s gaze doesn’t break from mine, his touch still on my pussy. With his right hand, he slowly lifts my ankle, pushing my leg into the air so he can duck beneath it. He lowers my leg to rest my cast over his shoulder.

“I … I can’t offer you a relationship, Rose,” he warns.

Something about his words stings deep in a hidden cavern of my heart. But why should it? It’s not as though I could stay, even if I wanted to. Not with Matt lurking around. He’s clearly a little too interested in my presence here. It’s not safe for Fionn if I linger. And I definitely do not want to stay, no matter how much I romanticize moments in this small-town life. This is just a crush, that’s all. On a doctor . All smart and kind and sexy. On a town. It’s cute, with the welcoming people and the rowdy fight club and the knitting grannies who take no shit. But my home is on the road. In an RV. In a big top tent. Flying through a metal cage. A person like me doesn’t pick a relationship over that kind of life. And a person like Fionn doesn’t choose a relationship with someone like me.

I soothe the little sting with a shrug. “Never said I wanted one.”

Fionn nods. He seems relieved. “Then we need to have rules.”

“Maybe can we make some when your hand isn’t on my pussy? Because right now is not the best time to form logical thoughts.” Fionn lifts his hand away, and a crushing wave of unanswered need courses through my veins. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“Rules first. We don’t want to fuck this up before we even start.”

“Fine,” I say as I roll my eyes. “No … cuddling.”

Fionn nods. “Okay. That’s a good one. No kissing on the mouth.”

“No sleeping in each other’s beds.”

“No holding hands or PDA.”

“No pet names. But Doc doesn’t count. You’re just … Doc .”

Fionn breathes a laugh, the warmth summoning goose bumps as it fans across my skin. His molten eyes soften, just for a moment. “And we’ll check in with each other, yeah?” he says, and I give him a faint smile. “We’ll just keep talking.”

“Right.” I nod. My head keeps bobbing, my lips pressed into a tight line, every muscle in my body coiled tight until a hidden wire inside me snaps. “Except for right now. With all due respect, Dr. Kane,” I say as I fold one hand behind his head, “shut the fuck up and eat my pussy.”

He laughs. But it’s dark and deep. His eyes are wolfish on mine as he lowers his head between my thighs. The first press of his mouth to the fabric covering my pussy ignites liquid heat in my chest. It sparks a craving, a need. But need is a venom. It burns. It claims. It conquers and defeats you. And I surrender to it. I forget everything about who I am, where I am, what this is. I just want more . More of his hands wrapped around my flesh, pushing my legs wider. More of the way he rumbles a throaty moan when I rake my nails across his scalp and grip his hair. I even beg for it when he bears his mouth down on my clit, still sheathed beneath the damp, silken fabric. Please. Yes. More.

When I drop my head to the back of the couch, he still watches me. Every time I look down at him, he’s waiting, a magnet ready to snap me back into place. He wants me to watch, I can tell. It’s in the crease that appears between his brows, the way he lavishes me with ravenous kisses through the thin material. He keeps my broken leg slung over one shoulder and then slides his hands up my thighs. One keeps going, slipping beneath my shirt to trail a path of tingling heat up my belly, to the center of my chest, to the hem of my bra. He pulls one of the cups down and runs his thumb over my nipple, coaxing it into a firm peak.

“Rose,” he whispers. He pulls my panties to the side and lavishes my clit with his tongue until I close my eyes. I’m panting, sinking into a euphoric haze. “If you—”

“If I want you to stop, just tell you, yeah yeah, rules, blah blah—”

“If you don’t want me to stop, Rose,” he says with a dark smile and hooded eyes, “then you’ll keep your eyes on me.”

I swallow. “Okay …”

“Good girl,” he says, and slowly descends, his gaze unblinking until the moment he presses his tongue to my clit and moans into my flesh. His expression is one of both satisfaction and need, as though this is something he wants, but it’s still not enough. As though he’ll always need more. I know how that feels. That sensation is already embedded into my chest like a splinter that will never be pulled free. In just a few brief moments, I realize I might have sacrificed more of myself than I bargained for with this arrangement. Because I don’t know how I’ll be able to walk away from this once it’s over. And it’s barely begun.

I want to close my eyes, for just a moment, but I don’t. I can’t bear the thought of Fionn stopping. Not as he tears my panties at one hip, not bothering to pull them all the way off. He plunges two fingers into my pussy and I know I’m soaking his hand. He pumps them in a slow rhythm, and I moan as he seals his mouth over my clit and swirls his tongue over the swollen bud of nerves. His fingers curl, stroking my G-spot, and I whimper, melting further into the plush cushions. When I rake my fingernails across his scalp he groans his approval, a vibration that pushes me closer to an edge I’m not ready to fall over. I want to draw this pleasure out. I want to live in every moment of Fionn’s tongue lavishing my clit, of his fingers thrusting in my pussy. Of his eyes fixed to mine, dark and lethal.

And then he sucks on my clit, and I lose the battle to not fall from the cliff of desire.

My back bows. I cry out. One of my hands tightens around the edge of the cushion, the other around the back of Fionn’s head as I press him to my center. He has mercy on me when I close my eyes and forget all about his rules and demands. Stars burst across the black canvas of my closed lids. My pulse drums in my head. I unravel in Fionn’s grasp, and he chases every moment of my spiraling pleasure with his tongue. Only when he’s sure I’ve had enough and can’t take more does he lift his mouth away and slide his fingers free of my soaked pussy.

It’s a long moment that passes with just the sound of my ragged breaths between us. I still haven’t opened my eyes when he lowers my leg from his shoulder. But he doesn’t release it. He scoops up the other one, and a heartbeat later, I’m being lifted from the couch. When my eyes flutter open, his gaze is trapped on my parted lips. For a moment, I think he’s going to break his first rule and kiss me, but he wipes that thought away with a flicker of a smile.

“You didn’t think we were already done, did you?”

“I was hoping not,” I reply.

His grin turns rakish as he starts walking toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

A single, unwanted thought passes through my mind, that maybe he’s right. ing an itch can turn it into an open wound.

I grip tighter to his neck and let him carry me away.