Page 36 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

Joe was on the other side of the bedroom door within seconds, ignoring Molly’s wheezes as he walked out of the pub, splashing through the puddle of her blood, to make the miles-long walk to the distant cross on the hill, to prove some stupid point to Percy that he was no longer sure he wanted to prove at all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GOD’S FUCKBOY

Percy watched Joe from his window. Ever more distant. Smaller and smaller. And gone.

And just as lovely as ever.

He opened a bottle of brandy and paced the large room for some time.

He’d never, never meant to speak to Joe like that. Not ever. The ridiculous question had thrown him was all.

He wasn’tinlove with Anna. He loved her, certainly. Adored her. But he was absolutely notinlove with her. It just so happened that the exact second Joe had asked him, Percy was experiencing the vile and irrepressible memory of being possessed and slamming his fist into her stomach so hard he’d knocked all the air out of her. And the thought of that—anyone or anything doing that to her again… He’d felt he might vomit. He had momentarily felt incredibly ill, and panicked, because he couldn’t trust that she would call him if she needed him. Iftheyneeded him. Not after everything. Not with his brother and Joe involved, and all their feelings on the line.

Then, right in the middle of that memory, that galling question.

He’d reacted with his habitual defensiveness that invariably took the form of attack, and now the damage was done.

And Joe, who accused Percy of harbouring secret feelings that Percy didn’t remotely harbour, had run off to be with that bastard, God.

It was incensing, to say the least. Percy here, left alone, with no choice but to drink this very good brandy by himself and ruminate on unpleasant feelings. And Joe, over there, probably sharing his feelings with that prick. Talking about what an asshole Percy was. Wearing that nice outfit that he knew Percy liked so much…

But Percy would set it right soon enough.

He dropped into the seat by the desk and doubled his effort writing the letter Joe had asked him to write to Aubrey.

He didn’t write one to Evelyn or Anna. He would ask Joe to write those instead.

When he finished his letter, he set to pacing some more.

It took hours.

Whatever was keeping Joe so long with his stupid religion was taking forever.

That stupid bearded bastard… What were they even talking about?

Percy searched the inn and failed to find shovels to dig graves. He did find a nifty crowbar, though, and this he took up to their room to present to Joe later.

He sharpened his knife.

He tried to think up something extravagant to make for dinner.

Finally, he caught a flash of Joe through the window and readied himself as best he could.

Upon Joe’s return, the first thing he saw was Percy reclining in a high-backed red-velvet chair, long legs crossed and thrown to one side, arms languid on darkly varnished mahoganysupports, except the one lazy hand, upturned, with Percy’s good brandy in the correct glass, warming and unfolding in the heat of his palm.

He was just about dressed. Pressed grey trousers down to his beautiful bare feet, his leather belt pulled tight, cinching in his white shirt. The tie, he had forgone, and the shirt folded open three-buttons down, giving just the right sort of glimpse of skin. His cuffs were undone, loosely rolled past his elegant wrists, which would have felt so nice pressed against Joe’s instantly desirous lips.

Desirous, but wary.

Joe threw his key down on the side table, leaned his shoulder against the door to shut it, and slid his hands into his pockets to await Percy’s welcome.

The voice came bitter and acidic, like a bad Scottish coffee. “You’ve been withHimagain, haven’t you?”

Joe burst out laughing then leaned his head back against the door.

Percy swished the brandy around in faux irritation. “What’s He got that I haven’t?”

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