Page 42 of Scythe & Sparrow
I just need a little relief. To let go of some of this pent-up tension. That’s all it is. I mean, who wouldn’t get cabin fever when they’re used to being on the road and performing every weekend?
With a huff of a sigh, I reach for one of Fionn’s metal crochet hooks and prop my leg back up on the coffee table. I shimmy the hooked end between my flesh and the cast, and then Iscratch.
The relief is fuckingdelicious. Maybe one of the best things I’ve ever felt. And it’s not quite enough. The more I scratch, the more my skin craves it. The sensation of need spreads and I chase the relief with the tiny hook.
I hit a particularly itchy spot, tilt my head back, and moan.
“Rose,” Fionn barks from the kitchen.
I barely register when he repeats my name. “Occupied. Leave a message.”
“Rose, Christ alive.” I hear his quickened pace as he storms across the hardwood. I know what he’s about to do. So of course I double my efforts with the crochet hook.
“Stay away, McSpicy,” I say as I furiously shove the crochet hook beneath the cast and scratch my skin.
“It’s going to snap and cut you.”
“It’s metal.”
“You’re going to injure yourself.”
I bat Fionn’s hand away when he reaches for my wrist. “You won’t let me live off sugar alone. You keep trying to give me that green juice shit. Let me havesomething.”
“You could get an infection,” he snaps when he finally manages to catch my forearm. I whimper in protest as he pulls the crochet hook from my hand and tosses it out of reach onto the chair across from me.
“But I have pearls,” I say with a saccharine smile. My grin turns wicked when Fionn’s cheeks flush. He lets go of my wrist but still hovers behind the couch, his brows knit with a frown as he stares down at me. But there’s more than just his doctory judgment in his expression. There’s heat in his eyes, a flame that licks at my skin.
“They don’t last forever.”
“Some do.”
“Not these ones.”
“Shame.”
Fionn rolls his eyes, irritation deepening their shade of sapphire blue. I sink into the couch and puff a sharp breath upward to ruffle my bangs. The shallow creases that fan from the corners of his eyes smooth as his expression softens, just a little. “You can’t do that,”he says with a nod to the crochet hook as he comes around the end of the couch. “Even a small scratch could become a problem beneath the cast.”
“Yeah, Doc. I heard you the first fifty times.”
“This is the second time, technically, but who’s counting—”
“And logically speaking, I know that, but I’m willing to take the risk for a little relief,” I say as he stops before me. The rest I leave unsaid. That this is just a fleeting moment, a single scratch that will hardly satisfy me when my whole being seems consumed by discomfort. My flesh. My thoughts. Inside and out, I feel like I’m trapped, bound by layers and layers of tissue I can’t shed.
And maybe, for the first time, Fionn doesn’t just see it in me and pretend it doesn’t exist. “Okay,” is all he says, more to himself than to me, I think. He kneels between the couch and the coffee table, meeting my eyes only briefly, just long enough to ignite a heavy beat in my heart. He turns his focus to my leg, gently wrapping one hand around the layers of fiberglass that encase my ankle, his other sliding beneath the back of my knee. “Hold still.”
And then he leans in, his face so close to my thigh that his hair tickles my skin. He blows a long, thin thread of air beneath the edge of the cast. His breath is cool when it streams over my flesh. I swear I can feel it stir every individual hair that’s grown in the dark. My heart pounds in my ears. Can he sense it against his warm palm? Does it riot against his hand? Does he think about the reasons why it seems to double in pace when he sucks in a breath and blows another burst of air beneath my cast?
“Does that help?” Fionn asks, and when I don’t say anything, he glances up at me. I give a faint nod. But I think it’s a lie. I don’tthink it helps at all. I think it makes everything worse. If he realizes that my gesture is untruthful, he doesn’t say. He just watches, taking in the details of my face. His eyes have turned black, the pupils blown. As though he can’t keep his gaze on me any longer, he turns away and blows again beneath my cast. “I know it’s not as effective as my crochet hook,” he says as he shoots me a chastising smile over his shoulder, “but it’s the safest way.”
I don’t want to tell him that he’s making it worse. Or that it’s makingother thingsworse.
My core clenches. I try not to squirm in my seat. But I can’t help it, not when Fionn’s thumb absentmindedly coasts over the tender flesh of my knee as he blows another steam of air beneath my cast. My thigh tenses, and I shift my hips, moving slowly in the hope that he won’t notice, because I don’t want him to stop. Even if it makes me nearly mindless with the need for more. Even though I’m just a patient or a friend in his eyes. Even if I know it’s only going to hurt more when he lets go.
He blows into my cast. Again. And again. And again. I shift my hips and brace my hands on the seat of the couch, but don’t even realize I’m doing it. My flesh is on fire. My center throbs, screaming at me in a demand for more than I’m able to give. I should put a stop to this. But I can’t seem to form a single word, not when Fionn’s hand is warm on my leg. Not when his breath stirs every sensation in my skin.
Fionn turns to face me, my ankle and knee still in his grasp. His eyes drop from mine, and I feel the caress of his gaze on the side of my neck, then on my chest. I realize only now that it’s heaving with rapid breaths, as though I’ve just run a race. I swallow and his attention returns to my throat before lifting to my parted lips.
His voice is low. Quiet. There’s maybe even an accusation in it when he asks, “Are you okay?”
