Page 38 of Scythe & Sparrow
I could leave it there. Deescalate this situation. Chalk it up to bad luck. That’s probably all it was, just a moment that went too far. A simple accident.
But then Bill’s eyes land on Rose.
His menacing, predatory grin is stuck to her like tar. It clings on and I don’t have to look over my shoulder to feel her recoil behind me, as though her pain and fear and anger are invading my cells. And then I forget all about the kind of man I’m facing. Just like I forget the kind of man I’m supposed to be.
My first hit slams into Bill’s cheekbone. My second into his temple. I catch the moment of surprise in his eyes. In a blink, it transforms into rage. His fist arcs through the air, but I duck to deliver a hit to his ribs. He grunts in pain. It shouldn’t be so satisfying when he lurches backward. My knuckles crunch into his brow. It shouldn’t feel so fucking good when the skin splits open.
But it does.
Bill rallies back as blood pours over his eye. I take a punch to the cheek that makes the world around me vibrate and darken. But I stay on my feet and come back harder. My blood is lava. My muscles are stone. One fist after the other. One blow after the next. I don’t even see the man I pummel into a bloody pulp. I just see Rose on the floor, her pretty face creased with pain, her broken leg clutched in a white-knuckled grip. I see the unshed tears in her eyes and I hear the agony in her voice. And all I want is to tear his fucking flesh off for hurting her. I want to punish him. I want to punishmyself. Because I never should have turned my back on her. The moment she showed up, I should have insisted we leave.
It’s my fucking fault.
Something cracks open inside me. A fuckingmonstertears free. I roar as I throw all my weight into a right hook that smashes into Bill’s bruised jaw. His head snaps to the side and his muscles go slack and he falls to the floor.
For a moment, the barn seems completely silent. The people around me stare at Bill, bloodied and unconscious on the floor. Then they look at me. The man who’s supposed to be the doctor for probably half these people and their families. With my stained white coat, covered in crimson splashes. My stethoscope discarded at my feet. And then, just as sudden as the stark silence, they erupt in cheers, raising their glasses, shouting and bouncing on their heels. They pat me on the shoulders and chantDoctor, Doctor, Doctorover and over and over. But even through the crowd, I still hear her. The only person who says my name.
“Fionn.”
I spin around and push past a few people to get to the table where Rose struggles to keep her balance with the single crutch, the other lost somewhere among the crowd. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve framed her face with my hands, my knuckles raw and swollen next to her flawless skin. She’s so fucking beautiful, her cheeks flushed, her plush lips open, her lashes still damp with tears of pain. My thumb coasts across her cheek and her eyes drift closed.
“I got knocked over. I’m okay,” she whispers. I don’t know how I can hear her over the noise that surrounds us. But I do. She grips my wrist with her free hand. “Are you?”
God, I want to kiss her. I want to feel the heat of her lips against mine. Would she want that? Would she melt against me if she did?Or would the tension I feel between us snap and release something feral inside her? Insideme?
I lean a little closer. Her eyes search mine. Her grip tightens on my wrist.
A hand clamps onto my shoulder and Tom appears in the periphery. And just like that, the spell is broken. I turn my attention back to Rose. Her eyes are still on me.
What are you doing? She’s your fucking patient.
And you’re the most dangerous man here.
I let my hands fall back to my sides.
“Looks like there was a ringer in our midst the whole time,” Tom says. With a clap on my back and a dark smile, he slips back into the crowd.
Though Rose keeps her thoughts shuttered from me, something lingers in the air between us. An electric charge. The scent of an oncoming storm.
And then she turns away.
REDUCTION
Fionn
“There’s a beat-up chick here with a tall guy claiming to be your brother. He stole my fucking crutch,” Rose snarls on the other end of the phone.
I rap my fingertips on my desk as a shit-eating grin spreads across my face. “Ask him to give you his childhood nickname.”
“He’s asking to confirm your childhood nickname,” she says, but not to me. The defiant “no” I hear in the background is like a single-worded symphony in my ears.
“Great,” Rose says, menace dripping from her voice. “Then I knife you in the balls.”
There’s a muffled protest from Rowan and an unfamiliar woman’s voice interjects in the tone of a pained and tired plea. There are a few resigned words from my brother that I can’t make out, a beat of silence—and then a burst of laughter.
“His nickname is Shitflicker,” Rose finally says, and my triumphant cackle echoes through the empty clinic as I lean back in my office chair.
“That’s my brother Rowan. Tell him I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” I hang up and the smile lingers as I push aside my paperwork and lock up to walk home. There’s a car I don’t recognize in the driveway when I arrive. I can almost feel Rowan’s energy before I even reach the door. When I open it, he’s at the table with Rose, and relief courses through my veins when she looks at me and smiles. It’s a moment that only lasts as long as a blink.
