Page 178 of Property of Necro
My bald executioner shrugs.I watched you sleep. That counts.
I stomp my foot. “No. No. It doesn’t.”
It most certainly does not count.
This is insane.
No.
That’s not even the right word for it.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead,Necro adds.
“Which better not be for a long damn time.”
If you agree to marry me, it won’t be.
Oh. That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?
“Necro.” I stomp my foot again, and all three of them grin at me like they’re a bunch of hot, shirtless assholes.
Wait.
They are.
Hot.
Shirtless.
And
Mega assholes.
Ugh.
Say yes,he signs, taking off his glasses, which forces him to squint. Somehow, that simple gesture turns the seriousness from a five straight to a ten. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without glasses in broad daylight.
“Put them back on,” I order, and Necro’s scarred grin broadens as he snaps the wraparounds in half and discards them in the grass.
“That was unnecessary. You need those.”
I need you more.
Oh. My. God.
He did not just say that.
Not knowing how to respond to all this… insanity, I glare at Rot instead and try a different tactic. “Don’t you have like a billion body parts to process? How can you go on a honeymoon when you have those to deal with?”
The jerk barks a hearty laugh. “Red, I broke the bodies down this morning and sent the rest to the crematorium.”
“When?”
“When you were sleeping.”
I sputter and flap my free arm. Merryweather circles around my ankles like they’re a go-kart track as I stare at the men, trying to come up with something valid to say. When nothing comes, I grumble a low, “What the hell, guys?” and finger the ruby around our chicken’s neck. She makes the sweetest little sound like she approves of my choice of husbands—old men. Whatever lingo you wanna use. I’m not a biker chick, so I’m gonna say husbands. They’re not old, even if they’re closing in on forty, far sooner than I am. I also like the word better. It rolls off the tongue, don’t ya think? Husbands.
The entire club emerges from the tree line, including Mama in his chef’s coat.
