Page 42 of Poisonous Savage

“I’llgo get us some coffee from down the road.Thisstuff here tastes like piss water.”

ROSALIND

TWO WEEKS LATER

"F

uck,"Iwhispered asIstretched, the sun brutally waking me from my slumber.Painlanced through me, a reminder of my not-so-gentle introduction to the lifeI'dbeen sold into.Thepull of stitches in my stomach was a red-hot poker, butIbit back a gasp.Goddamn, this shit hurt.DocsaidIdidn’t need anything butTylenolnow, but fuck ifIdidn’t want something stronger.Whiskey, maybe.Ihad always been more of a light beer drinker, but since it’s the booze of choice around here,Igot used to it.

Witheffort,Iswung my legs off the bed and found my balance.Myfingers fumbled for a shirt—Hunter's, waytoo big—andIshrugged it on, the fabric hanging off my frame.Itcovered the worst of the damage, at least.Iwas still sporting yellow splotches, but the stitches would leave a scar.Meanlooking thing.Suckingin a breath,Ibraced myself for the stairs and shuffled to the door.

Thewooden stairs creaked under my bare feet asIdescended and walked into the kitchen.HunterandMarco, the menIloved, sat at the table.Fuckingmafia kings in such a domestic setting.Theylooked up from their coffee, the concern in their eyes almost comical if it weren't so damn suffocating.

"Sitdown,Rosalind,"Huntergrowled, his voice dark thunder.Hestood and moved towards me. “Docsaid we needed to help you for a month.Youshould have texted.”

"Easy,"Marcochimed in, softer but with an edge.Hisbaby blues held a glint of something fierce, protective maybe, or possessive.

Iwaved them off, a flick of my wrist dismissing their offer to help. "Gotit," my face twisted into a grimace.Iedged my way to a chair, my stomach screaming protest with each step.

"Careful,"Marcomurmured, but he stayed put, just watching with those eyes that saw too much.

"Fuckcareful,"Ishot back, my voice stronger now.Ieased into the chair, owning the pain and letting it fuel me.Ineeded to get moving.Iwas becoming a barnacle in that bed, lying around all day, every day.

IcaughtHunter'snearly black gaze. "Coffee,"Idemanded.Hepushed a cup toward me without a word, the scrape of ceramic on wood loud in the silence.

AsItook the first bitter sip, the dark brew scorched a path down my throat, a welcome burn.Itwas like swallowing strength, andIfelt the embers of my old self flicker to life.

Istretched out, trying not to wince asImoved.Theyhad been doing nothing but hovering, andIneeded… a different problem taken care of.OneIknew they were itching to help with, but with them treating me like a porcelain doll, neither had tried anything.Ithad beenWEEKS.

"Gota problem,"Isaid, leaning up against the kitchen counter, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.Theair was thick with tension, the smell of coffee failing to mask the scent of their cologne.

Hunter'sgaze snapped to mine.Marcoglanced over at him, and for a moment,Iswear they communicated without words—brothers in arms, in crime, in whatever twisted bond they shared.

"Thinkyou two could help a girl out?"Myvoice was a playful hum, a tease. "I'mdying here...all this horniness and no one to scratch the itch."Alaugh bubbled up fromdeep within, andItrailed a finger between my breasts, emphasizing their dip and curve.

Theyexchanged that look again, silent communication in the shift of their eyes, the set of their jaws. "Nota chance,"Hunterfinally grunted, muscles rippling as he leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face.

"Ah, c'mon,"Irolled my eyes and pouted. "You'retelling me all this testosterone and no service?"

Marcostood, crossing his arms, his stance a barrier even as his lips twitched. "Rest,Rosalind.Yourbody needs to heal," he said, his voice like gravel that promised sin and salvation in the same breath.

"Can'tone of you take care of it?"Itried to stand, ignoring the pull in my gut, the fire along my skin, beforeIsighed and remained seated.Iwatched them both, read the concern masked behind their stoicism. "Thereare ways without..."Igestured vaguely, a blush threatening to rise despite my bravado.

Hunter'shand clenched on the tabletop, knuckles white as bone. "Soon," he rumbled before muttering something under his breath.

"Fine,"Ihuffed, crossing my legs beneath the table, feeling the way my body responded to the mere thought of them—the heat, the hunger.Itgnawed at me, a beast with an insatiable appetite.

"Focuson recovering,"Marcoadded, softer now, his gaze holding mine.Itwas a plea wrapped in steel, a command veiled as a request.

Hunterchanged the subject. "Weneed to deal withAngelo.We’vebeen fucking with him for a couple of weeks.He’smissing a few limbs.Docis great at cauterizing them.But… can't let whoever remains think they can snatch him back."

Thecasual mention of murder slid over me.Iwanted him dead.Itruly did.ButIdidn’t want to do it.Iknew they had been waiting for me, in caseIwanted the final slice, but…Iwanted a break.Isipped my coffee, letting the darkness of the brew mimic the darkness pooling inside me.Theyspoke of death with the ease of men who had dealt with it every day.Likeit was nothing more than a casual beer with dinner.

"Bettersooner than later."Marco'sjaw clenched. "Don'twant any surprises."Helooked at me expectantly.

Istared into the depths of my cup, seeing not the reflection of the girlIonce was but the bruised version. “Youcan end it.Idon’t want to.”

Hunterlooked surprised before nodding. “Considerit done.We’lldump him at the docks.”

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