ROWAN
Sloane sleeps next to me in the passenger seat, a blanket I stole from the hotel covering her body, her black hair swept over her swollen shoulder. Her bra strap holds an ice pack in place over the joint, and though I know it probably melted an hour ago, I haven’t had the heart to replace it in case I wake her.
When I look at her, I can’t seem to pry one emotion away from the others. They all intertwine when I think of Sloane Sutherland. Fear is fused with hope. Care with control, with envy, with sadness. It’s fucking everything, all at once. Even the desire to turn this feeling off locks with the need to nurture it. The totality of it devours me.
And it only grows with every passing moment. Sloane bleeds into every thought. When we’re apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her. Killing bound us together, and it’s a compulsion neither of us can live without. This need, and now this game between us, consumes me as much as she does.
My obsessions push me to a cliff I’m bound to fall over, and there might not be an end to the drop once I do.
Sloane stirs and groans, and my fucking heart starts rioting. Maybe it hasn’t stopped since that first day in the bayou when she walked out of that bathroom at Briscoe’s, all wet hair and flushed, freckled skin and that Pink Floyd T-shirt tied at her waist. Every time I think of her, my heart reminds me I’m not as dead on the inside as I thought after all.
“Easy, Blackbird,” I say as she groans again, more of a whimper this time that claws at my guts. I lay a hand on Sloane’s thigh, maybe to reassure myself as much as her. “Just a few more hours.”
She shifts, every painful movement etching a crease on her skin until her eyes are squeezed shut. The blanket falls down to her waist when she finally makes it to a straighter position but she doesn’t seem to notice, and when I pull it back up for her she gifts me with a faint, grateful smile. I pass her a bottle of water and a handful of pain meds before she has the chance to ask for them.
“I feel like hell,” she says, her eyes drifting closed once more as she swallows the pills. When I only respond with a thoughtful hmm, she gives me a sidelong glance. “You can say it.”
“Say what?”
“That I look like hell too.”
I chuckle and her eyes narrow. “I’m not saying that. No fucking way.” I look back to the road, saluting a magpie that flies overhead, trying to keep my attention on the horizon even though the weight of Sloane’s piercing stare on the side of my face is like a hot brand on my skin. “What? I think you’re beautiful. Like some kind of vicious, battle-hardened goddess of vengeance.”
Sloane snorts. “Goddess of vengeance my ass.” I glance over in time to catch one of her epic eye rolls. Before I can stop her, she’s got the visor pulled down and flips up the cover for the mirror.
A shriek fills the little hatchback.
“Rowan—”
“It’s not that bad, once you get used to it.”
“Get used to it? There’s a fucking boot print on my face.” She leans closer to the tiny mirror, turning her head side to side as she inspects the bruises of distinct tread marks on her forehead and two black semi-circles beneath her lower lashes. When Sloane turns to me, her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
“Blackb—”
“Don’t you Blackbird me. That can-can motherfucker stamped my fucking forehead. I can even see the Carhartt logo on it,” she says, her voice taking on a watery quality as she draws closer to the mirror before turning back to me, a tear spilling over her lashes as she leans over the center console and points to the circle in the center of her forehead. “See? Right there. Carhartt. Why couldn’t he have just punched me in the face like a normal person?”
“Probably because he wasn’t a normal person, love. I thought the chainsaw was a big clue.” I wipe one of her tears away with my thumb. Her lip wobbles and I want to simultaneously laugh and burn the world until I find a way to resurrect that arsehole so she can kill him again. “It won’t be there forever.”
“But I have to go to the bathroom,” Sloane says, managing to wrestle her voice under control even though her face is still the picture of distress. “How am I supposed to go anywhere without drawing attention to myself?”
I don’t dare offer the option of finding a private bush on the side of the road to squat behind. She’s clearly reached a limit to her stress and I’m not keen on being stabbed while driving.
“There’s a rest stop in ten miles. I’ll sort you out.”
Sloane watches me for a long moment, and though her expression is still weary and pained, it softens just a little before she settles back into her seat. “Okay.”
My chest aches. She trusts me.
I swallow, dragging my attention back to the road. “Okay.”
Silence descends as Sloane gnaws on her lower lip, watching out the window as farm fields slip past. I turn up the music now that she’s awake in the hope it might calm her when I sense the tension rolling from her motionless frame. Sometimes, it feels like having a wild thing in my grasp when she’s with me. She’s just like her nickname, ready to take off with the first gust of wind. I’ve never wanted to earn trust before Sloane. I’ve never cared about keeping it on a personal level, not for anyone but my brothers. And suddenly, Sloane’s trust is one of the most important things in the world to me. I know if I lose it, I’ll never get it back.
And that scares the shit out of me.
“What if I need surgery?” Sloane whispers. I offer her a smile, but it doesn’t seem to reassure her.
“Then you’ll have surgery.”
“People will ask questions.”
“My brother will take care of that. But we don’t even know if it’s necessary. Let’s see what Fionn says when he takes a look.”
Sloane sighs, and I lay my hand back on the blanket covering her thigh, unsure if this is too much when I don’t know where we stand. But her good hand slips into mine, and my heart jumps into my throat with a heavy beat.
Not so dead on the inside after all.
“Does Fionn know too?” she asks, her gaze angled away from me toward the open expanse of land and sky.
“About our…hobbies? Our game?” She nods, and I give her hand a light squeeze. “Yeah, he knows.”
“But he’s a doctor. Our idea of fun is kind of the antithesis of his life’s work.”
I shrug before I give a nod toward the sign for the upcoming exit. The tension in her hand eases. “Let’s just say my brothers and I didn’t have the most conventional upbringing even after we left that shithole of my father’s house. Between Lachlan’s ruthlessness and my recklessness, Fionn has no blinders on when it comes to the darker shades of life. He’s chosen his own path like we always hoped he would. But he accepts what Lachlan and I have become, just like we accept him.”
“Your path,” Sloane says. “How did you find it?”
“You mean the restaurant?” I ask, but when I glance at Sloane she shakes her head, her gaze honed on my face like she’s absorbing every nuance. “After my father attacked us for the last time, when Lachlan and I killed him, I realized I didn’t feel what I probably should about doing something like that. Most people would feel guilt. But I felt rush of excitement when it was happening. Accomplishment when it was over. There was peace in knowing he would never come back. And when I met someone else that reminded me of him a short while later, I realized there was nothing stopping me from doing it again. There was always a next person. Someone worse. Eventually, it became a kind of sport, to find the worst person I could and wipe them off the planet forever.”
Sloane hums a thoughtful note and turns her gaze toward the gas station ahead. I want to know the same kinds of things about her. How did she get to this? What happened before and after her first kill? Does she really have no one other than Lark? But with Sloane, I already know she shares when she’s ready, not when she’s asked. I can only hope she’ll be a little more ready now.
We pull into the gas station and I park far from the building where she’s less likely to be spotted, cutting the engine before I turn to her. “I’ll leave the keys with you, just in case.”
Sloane’s gaze flicks to the dash and back to me. Something softens in the pain still rampant in her bloodshot eyes. “Okay.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She nods, and I nod in return.
I try to take as little time as possible in the gas station, scooping up water and soft drinks and an assortment of snacks, along with a few things that will hopefully make Sloane more comfortable. I’m pleasantly surprised when the vehicle is where I left it, Sloane watching every step I take from behind the windscreen. Her deep breath and flicker of a smile don’t go unnoticed when I open her passenger door.
“I thought this was fitting,” I say. I snap the tag from a distressed gray trucker cap before handing it to her. ‘Sounds like bullshit to me’, the cursive script says across the front.
“Accurate,” she replies, centering it on her head before she takes the cheap aviators I pass to her next, clutching them in her good hand.
“This next part is probably going to hurt like a bastard.” I pull a button-up shirt from my bag and she lets go of a heavy sigh, frowning at the creased fabric. “We’ll cut it off when we get to Fionn’s.”
Sloane makes no argument, just glances down at her injured arm that lies limp and useless over the blanket before she gives a single nod.
I remove the melted ice pack from beneath her bra strap first, watching as her eyes press closed and her lower lip slides between her teeth. When I take her injured hand and guide the sleeve past her wrist, she lets out a pained whimper, a flush climbing up her neck and into her cheeks. I keep going, even though I know I’m the one causing her to suffer just by helping her put on a fucking shirt. I try to push away the thought that the whole thing is because of me, this whole stupid game, her busted shoulder, her battered face. But I tamp those thoughts down because she needs me, and the only thing that matters now is to get her help.
Once I slide the shirt over her bad shoulder, the task becomes easier. She’s able to twist her body enough to get her other arm in without too much trouble, and then I drop to a crouch to do the buttons up for her.
“Thank you,” she whispers through ragged breaths as I start the first button. I glance up at her face, a pretty flush brightening her cheeks beneath a thin film of sweat. “That sucked.”
“You did good,” I say. My fingers graze her stomach near her pierced navel as I thread the next button through the hole. I didn’t mean to touch her but I have zero regrets, especially when she responds with a little shiver. Her exposed skin pebbles, and when I look up, Sloane’s hazel eyes are fused to mine, her pulse humming in her neck as my gaze falls to her throat. I’m faintly aware that my fingers are slowing around the third button, the need to touch and taste her skin dulling every other thought behind a hazy film of desire. My cock strains against my zipper and I let my gaze travel down the slope of her collarbone, resting on the smooth skin of her chest as it rises and falls with rapid breaths. I follow the line of her bra to where the edge of the shirt is folded open, exposing the stained white satin.
And then I stop dead, all the world narrowing to the point of her nipple.
Her pierced nipple.
I can distinctly make out the shape of a heart around the firm peak and a tiny ball on either side.
That was not there the first time we met. I know that. I know it because my internal monologue was punctuated by the words ‘no bra’ every two minutes from the second she walked out of that bathroom at Albert Briscoe’s.
I think my hands have stopped moving. Can’t really be sure. I’m just staring at that little heart as my mouth goes dry and my cock goes hard as fucking stone.
A sudden flicker of motion breaks the spell as Sloane unfolds the sunglasses with a snap of her wrist.
“Something caught your eye, pretty boy?” she asks.
Those lips. That dimple. That fucking smirk. She slides the sunglasses on with a wink before her hazel eyes disappear behind the mirrored lenses, and then she’s slipping past me, all curves and sass as she tugs the shirt down enough to cover her bra before she saunters away to the gas station.
Goddamn.
I am going to have so much fucking fun punishing her.
It’s ten minutes later when she returns to the hatchback and I’m still sitting here with a raging hard-on, immersed in fantasies of how I’m going to torture her into telling me everything about those nipple piercings. My dick has no hope of calming down with that faint grin still plastered on her face.
“You good?” she asks when she pulls off her sunglasses and slides into the passenger seat. Her eyes flick to mine as she tugs the seatbelt across her body.
“Great. Yep. Just great.”
“You sure? You want me to drive for a bit? You look a little…distracted. Wouldn’t want something shiny to grab your attention and you run us off the road.”
I shoot her a glare as I key the engine and shift into drive. “Christ alive. Let me just survive the next two hours and then we’re going to have some words.”
And I feel like that’s what I barely manage to do. Survive.
As soon as we arrive at Fionn’s house, I’m ready for a stiff drink. It’s barely noon. I text my brother as soon as we’re parked, but he doesn’t answer, so I assume he’s immersed in some of his workout shit and head around the side of the vehicle to collect Sloane. Her bruises have darkened and she looks exhausted, which I guess isn’t surprising, but she bites down on any complaints as I help her out of the car and up the front steps of Fionn’s white-and-red Cape Cod home.
I ring the doorbell.
We wait.
I pound three times on the door.
We wait longer.
“Fucking Fionn,” I hiss. “He’s probably playing Metallica full-blast on his headphones as he does eight thousand burpees, the little shit.”
Sloane glances up at me, her pain now infused with worry. I give her my best attempt at a reassuring smile before I press a kiss to her temple.
“He knows we’re coming. It’ll be okay. He won’t let us down,” I say as I wrap a hand around the doorknob.
Unlocked.
I roll my eyes—of all people, Fionn Kane should know better. “For such a smart guy, he’s a fucking dumbass sometimes.”
The house is quiet as we step inside. It’s quaint as fuck. Definitely Fionn in his peak ‘Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever’ era, just like Lachlan said. There’s even a lace doily on the coffee table.
Leading the way farther into the living space, I start heading toward the kitchen where I can see a rear door to the backyard. “Peckerhead,” I call out to the silent house. “Stop dicking around.”
Something cracks me across the skull. Stars explode within my vision.
“Dick this, motherfucker!”
A woman’s screech precedes a second hit that whacks my hand where I clasp it to the sore spot on top of my head. I manage to grab the weapon and rip it free of her grasp. Sloane is yelling behind me, a series of ‘whoa, whoa, whoas,’ as I wield the club with one hand while I try to keep Sloane behind me with the other. Except, the club isn’t really a club, but…a crutch…?
“Who the fuck are you?” a small, twenty-something, dark-haired banshee of a woman yells, hobbling into my field of vision as she takes a swipe at me with her remaining crutch. I hit it out of her hand and it spirals across the hardwood, but the little demon manages to stay upright. I’m about to jab her chest with my crutch in an attempt to push her over when she whips a hunting knife from behind her back, the blade nearly as long as her arm. “I said, who the fuck are you?”
“Me? Who the fuck are—”
“Did you do that to her face?” she snarls. She points the tip of her blade between me and Sloane, who’s now by my side with her good hand raised in a placating gesture. “You did that?”
“No, Jesus—”
“I’ll cut you—”
“How about everyone just settle down. I think this is all a simple misunderstanding,” Sloane says as she takes a careful step closer to the little banshee. “What’s your name?”
The banshee’s dark eyes dart to Sloane and stick there. “Rose.”
“Rose. Cool, okay. Nice. I’m Sloane.”
“You look like one of the bally broads kicked you in the face in clown alley,” Rose says.
Sloane blinks. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “I…I honestly have no idea what that means. But he didn’t do it, I swear.”
“Right, sure.” Rose scoffs, her eye roll nearly as good as Sloane’s. She takes a hobbling step closer, but the cast thuds on the floor and she grimaces. “He just nudged you with his foot, did he? Just a love tap? You don’t need to protect this piece of shit, honey. I’ll fucking cut his balls off,” she growls, pointing the tip of her blade toward me. I try to knock it with the end of her crutch but she dodges my swipe before Sloane steps between us.
“No, really. See? Carhartt logo. Right there,” Sloane says, tipping the brim of her hat up to point at the circle stamped on her forehead. She waves her hand behind her in the general vicinity of my feet. “He’s more of a Converse guy.”
“Where’s the motherfucker who did that to your face?”
“He’s dead.”
“Then who the fuck is this crutch-stealing fleabag?”
“He’s Rowan,” Sloane says, gesturing at me again. Rose narrows her eyes as though this is insufficient information. “He’s my f-fr…boy. Guy. A man-guy. I’m…with. Here.”
I snort a laugh as Rose’s face scrunches. “Man-guy,” I echo. “Real smooth, Blackbird.”
“Shut up,” Sloane hisses as she glances over her shoulder at me as though she’s unsure if she should relinquish the details of Fionn being my brother. I hike my eyebrows in reply and press my lips shut. “Little help before I get knifed?”
I shake my head. “Man-guy shutting up, as requested.”
Sloane groans, her eye roll putting Rose’s earlier efforts to shame. I swear her eyes even go in different directions before she turns back to the woman with a blade up in her face. “Look, I’m in need of some medical help, obviously. Fionn is a doctor, right? He also happens to be this crutch-thieving fleabag’s brother.”
Rose’s suspicious glare slices between us. She deliberates for a long moment before she pulls a phone from her pocket, her knife still pointed in our direction and her eyes straying from us only long enough to select a contact to call. I can hear the faint ring as she presses the phone to her ear, then my brother’s muffled greeting.
“There’s a beat-up chick here with a tall guy claiming to be your brother. He stole my fucking crutch,” Rose bites out. She falls silent as Fionn says something in the background, and her eyes then fix to me like lasers. She jerks her chin once in my direction. “He’s asking to confirm your childhood nickname.”
Blood drains from my extremities as my gaze darts to Sloane. I shake my head. “No.”
That seems to delight the hellcat—Rose’s responding smile is fucking feral. “Great. Then I knife you in the balls.”
“Yeah? Hobble over here and try it,” I snarl. I try to poke her with the rubber end of the crutch but Sloane bats it away.
“For fucksakes, you two. I’ve got a messed up arm here. I need a doctor,” Sloane says, shifting side-to-side at the waist to give a demo of her limp appendage. She turns enough to give me one sad-puppy eye. The longer she stares at me, the more my resolve crumbles. Her lower lip juts out in a pout, and even though it might be fake, I know I’m a fucking goner. “Help me, Man-guy.”
A long groan rumbles in my chest as I drag a hand over my face. “Fuck. Fine.” Both women watch me with unwavering stares, their eyebrows hiked in anticipation. “Shitflicker.”
They face one another. There’s a moment of blessed silence.
And then a fit of giggles.
Rose relays my response back to Fionn and I hear him cackling on the line before he gives her some clipped instructions and disconnects the call. She pockets her phone and sheathes the blade as Sloane tugs the crutch free of my grip and passes it over to her.
Great. These two are going to be best friends now. Just what I need.
“Okay, Shitflicker. I guess you passed the test. Fionn will be home in fifteen to sort you out.”
“Hold on a second. You haven’t told us why the fuck you’re here,” I say as Rose rakes a dismissive smirk over my features.
“Maybe I’m Fionn’s Girl-chick, Mr. Man-guy Flick-a-shit.”
Sloane snorts a laugh. I take her good elbow, guiding her to the couch as I keep my glare pinned on Rose. “God help us all.”
Rose hobbles away on her crutches, muttering something about ‘worse than the circus’, whatever the fuck that means. I watch as she makes her way to the dining table, and when I’m satisfied she won’t chase after us with a crutch and a knife the size of a machete, I refocus on Sloane. I help her drag some pillows under her left side so she can find a comfortable position on the overstuffed couch, but I know what it’s like to be so exhausted you’re desperate to rest, yet so in pain that it seems like a distant reality. When she seems as settled as she can manage, I kneel in front of her and sweep her raven locks back from her face.
“Drink?” I ask, and she nods, her eyes pinched with the pain that settles in as her adrenaline wanes. “What do you want?”
The space between her brows crinkles as her pretty hazel eyes hold mine, her pain tugging at my chest.
“I want…” She trails off as her eyes dart away and back again. Then her dimple pops out. That fucking thing is like a beacon of mischief. I barely manage to suppress a groan. “I want to know how the Shitflicker name came to be.”
“Sloane,” I warn.
“Was it your own shit you flicked, or someone else’s? Regularly? And like…why?”
Her diabolical mask falters when I lean forward and brace a hand to either side of her knees. “You’re lucky you’re injured.”
Sloane gives me a smug little grin. Fuck, I want that smart mouth and those plump lips wrapped around my cock so badly it aches. “Oh yeah?” she snarks. “Why’s that?”
I drift closer still. Push into her space. She resists the urge to sink deeper into the cushions as her breath hitches. My hand folds around her throat, one finger at a time pressing into her skin, her pulse like music beneath my palm. She shivers when my lips graze the shell of her ear. “Because I’d bend you over my knee and spank that perfect ass of yours until it glows. And then do you wanna know what I’d do?”
She gives me a shaky nod. Three uneven breaths. “Yes,” she whispers.
“I’d teach you a lesson about wanting. About wanting to come so badly you have to beg for it.” My cock hardens as Sloane’s blood surges against my fingertips. “And once I was sure you’d learned that lesson, I’d teach you about wanting to stop coming so badly you beg for that too.”
Sloane’s hummingbird pulse sets my blood on fire, her faint ginger scent marred by sweat and blood and her lingering fear. I wonder if she realizes how easily I could crush her delicate windpipe. I wonder if she thinks about how she’s caught in the grip of a killer who is just as deadly as she is.
“You’re trembling, little bird.”
In a flash of movement, I let her go and tower over her. My cock begs for relief as I take in her blushed cheeks, her rapid breathing. Her fingers graze her neck, a light trace of motion across her pinked flesh as though she misses my touch.
When her eyes meet mine, I give her a dark grin, one full of confidence. Full of promises. “Maybe you should start practicing your begging, love. Might not bring you back a drink otherwise.”
Sloane’s huff of an exhaled breath is answered by my wink before I turn and stride away. It’s hard to not look back. Flushed and flustered Sloane might just be my favorite version of her yet.
Of course, I do look back, because I can’t help myself. Just one glance. A sly smirk that I throw over my shoulder, and I burn the image of her undisguised want into my memory.
When I get to the kitchen, I take my time to rummage for drink options, settling on the bottle of Weller’s Antique Reserve bourbon, not because it’s what I actually want, but because it’s the most expensive bottle of alcohol in the house and that little shit Fionn deserves to have his pricey booze stolen after the nickname fiasco. Rose is sitting at the dining table, the lights dimmed and a row of cards laid before her.
“I didn’t take you for the Solitaire type,” I say as I set the glasses on the counter and pour the first drink. Her glance at me is fleeting.
“Tarot.”
“Clearly,” I say flatly. Her gaze flicks up to me again, a faint smile tipping up one corner of her lips as though in apology for missing the joke with her distracted focus.
“Want a reading?”
“Hard pass. Not keen on tempting ghosts or some shit. Don’t need more bad luck.”
Rose shrugs, flips over a card from her deck. “Suit yourself.”
She examines the cards. A crease deepens between her brows as her eyes shift from one to the next. Another dog-eared card is flipped, her silence drawn out with her assessment of its hidden meaning.
“So…” I say, and she doesn’t look up as she turns another card. “You’re staying with my brother? How long have you two been going out?”
“We’re not.”
“I thought you said—”
“—that ‘maybe I’m his Girl-chick?’” Rose doesn’t look up as she snorts a laugh. “Yeah, ‘Man-guy’ didn’t sound real solid either. No offense.”
I glance to where Sloane sits in the living room with her left shoulder slumped, her focus on the phone balanced on her right knee. “None taken,” I mutter.
“How long have you been…” her eyes slice up from the cards and roam over me, and then, “pining…?”
My hand drags down my face as I groan. Something tells me there’s no bullshitting Rose. “A long-ass time.”
Rose looks down at her cards and nods sagely. “Yeah. Thought as much. Well, you’re welcome, in that case.”
“For what?”
“My serendipitous presence in this charming abode,” she says, sweeping a hand toward the living space. “Fionn has the primary bedroom. I have the first guest bedroom. That means you, my friend, get to share a bed with your Girl-chick over there.”
A burst of both excitement and nerves flood the chambers of my heart. I run a hand through my hair and look toward Sloane as she scrolls through her phone. I’m not sure if she’ll want that. Or if I should take the couch. Or if I can make myself take the couch. Or maybe I should just sleep on the floor. But I’m also no saint so there’s no fucking way I’m doing that.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Rose snorts. “Exactly. Shoot your shot, bro.”
I shake my head and huff a laugh at the little she-devil, but her attention is absorbed by the cards spread before her in the shape of a cross on the left, a line on the right. Her head tilts. Her brow furrows. Her fingers dance above the row of images, their meaning unfamiliar to me. “So, you got her into this whole fucked-up shoulder, bootprint face situation?”
“I…I guess. Yeah.”
“Some kind of…game…gone wrong?”
The bottle nearly slips from my hand. I set it down next to the glasses and take a step toward the table. “What?”
“A game,” she repeats without looking up. She points to a card of a man wearing a wreath and riding a horse, another wreath encircling the pole in his hands. Her gaze travels over the remaining cards. “A game of life and death. There’s suffering. Secrets and deceptions. Illusions,” she says, her voice grave as her thumb touches the edge of a card whose title at the bottom says ‘The Moon’.
“I thought I took a pass on a reading,” I say in a wary voice that’s little more than a whisper.
“You did. The cards disagreed.” Rose shrugs. “They do that.”
I find myself at the opposite end of the table, my eyes fused to Rose as she taps a finger next to the top card in the row on the right, a metronomic tick of time.
“The Tower,” she says. Her finger rests on the faded gold lightning that strikes a stone tower. “Destruction. Or liberation. What does it mean to you?”
Her eyes are nearly black in the dim light as they settle on me. My mind reeling, my only answer is a shake of my head.
“A tower of stone,” she says, not looking from me as she taps once on the card. “It should be strong. But built on an unstable foundation, it just takes one lightning strike to bring it down. Chaos. Change. Pain. And when your world crumbles around you, the truth is revealed.”
“And what…you think what happened to her is the lightning strike?”
Rose looks away to Sloane, a thoughtful frown passing through her expression before she turns her attention back to me. “I don’t know. Maybe it is. Or maybe that strike is yet to come.”
And though her gaze shifts away when Fionn comes striding through the door, Rose’s words remain like barbed hooks snagged deep into my thoughts. They refuse to let me go.
I make introductions. I go through the motions of explaining what happened, answer all my brother’s questions as he examines Sloane’s shoulder. We don’t linger in the house, and within twenty minutes, I’m gathering her up to bring her to Fionn’s office. But when I look at Sloane, it’s Rose’s questions that still remain. Maybe they were always there.
Did I ever really free her?
Or will I be her destruction?
