Page 47 of Root

“Screw you.” He steps through a black wrought iron gate, and there’s a set to his shoulders. Trouble in paradise between him and his cousin?

I dismiss it, because I didn’t get that vibe when they were together and I don’t get it now, he’s more…I don’t know… Maybe he wants the power?

Rush isn’t exactly hungry. Not for food, pussy or power. I’ve seen hunger in all the guises, he doesn’t have it. Except when he plays with me.

I skirt that. He’s not hungry for the power Nikolai wields. But maybe he feels the weight of his cousin’s shadow? Or maybe he doesn’t like me giving him shit. I don’t know.

I follow because what else am I gonna do? Make like this is Colditz and escape?

All I want is to get Jack and go back to being Lady M and Brutus. Maybe we can dump our road names.

Starting over sounds nice.

I suck in a breath and steady my nerves, the sparks of awareness in me that Rush lights with ease, and I follow him in.

And I stop.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Wow.”

The garden, walled off like a secret that bursts with beautiful surprises, smells gorgeous. It smells like the perfume of the flowers in bloom. There’s a trellis with a granite seat where a pond bubbles behind it.

In one corner is a small iron table and chairs and I can see someone like Rose sitting there, drinking tea or cocktails.

I’m not a tea and cocktails girl. Beer and tequila’s more my style. But for this spot, I’d make an exception.

Dante the cat jumps up on the bench and pushes something off. It’s a cat harness, and I don’t think he’s a fan. Overhead a crow calls. A Rupert. Thing with Rupert is Jack and I used to name all big birds Rupert. A running joke, borne from a life that didn’t have much and he really wanted a pet. No orphanage allows pets.

We’re such clichés.

Dante’s head goes up as he zeroes in on the bird, then he utters a low growl.

He slinks to the edge of the bench and sits, watching. I pick up the leather harness with its elegant chain leash. It’s clear the cat’s dragged it out here recently as it’s not sun-bleached or even weather-worn.

“Yours?” I ask Rush.

He looks at it, and suddenly, all I can think of is the girth of him when I shoved my hand in his jeans, when I felt him up, and my body gives a slow, low throb. Damn, he’d look good in a leash. “You wish.”

“I do.”

“Not happening.”

“Wuss,” I say.

“I’m a little too built for that.”

“Depends where you put it.” I need to stop taunting, flirting. “What’s this grotto?”

“It’s not a grotto.” He frowns. “Is it? What the fuck is a grotto?”

“A thing that…grots come to for safety?”

“Nikolai redid this for Rose,” Rush says.

“He? Not we? Like he and not we can offer me safety?

“It’s been here a long time, in ruin. I used to play in and around here. Anyway, what the fuck ever. It’s a secret garden for grot-creatures. And Rose. I’ll show you the shooting ranges.”

He turns and starts to go.

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