Page 14 of Savage Hearts
His voice is deep, his smile is brilliant, and my estrogen levels are surging.
Then, just to totally cross all the wires in my brain, he pulls me into a big bear hug, lifting me right off my feet in the process.
I wonder if my sister will mind when I start calling her fiancé Daddy?
When Declan sets me back onto my feet, I look at Sloane. She’s standing a few feet away, watching us with a hesitant smile.
She says softly, “Hey, Smalls.”
As always, she looks incredible. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect body. My gorgeous older sister, fearless lion, effortless flirt, consumer of men’s souls.
Life has always been easy for her. Even in her “awkward” teenage emo phase, she was the sun everyone else revolved around. She’s never not been stunning.
Unlike me, who looks like one of the flying monkeys fromThe Wizard of Oz. At least according to her.
I say, “Hey, Hollywood. Thanks for inviting me. Your man is a toad, and this place is a dump.”
“Wait until you see your bedroom.”
“Let me guess. You put me in the attic with the ghosts?”
“No, we put you in the basement so you wouldn’t scare the ghosts.”
“Appreciate it, hooker.”
“No problem, troll.”
We smile at each other. I can tell Declan is disturbed by this exchange, which makes me think he doesn’t have a sister.
Then I forget all about his siblings or lack thereof, because he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
He throws me over his shoulder!
I scream in delight then start to cackle like a madwoman.
An upside-down Sloane folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head in disapproval. “You’ll make her throw up, honey.”
“Are you kidding?” I shout, staring at Declan’s ass, which is eye level and magnificent. “This is awesome! Declan, you have my permission to proceed!”
Declan chuckles, Sloane rolls her eyes, and I kick my feet in sheer happiness.
It’s a good thing I packed enough of my favorite candy for this trip, because I might never leave.
FOUR
MAL
I’m about to pull the trigger and put a bullet in Declan’s head when a female steps out of the car.
Through the crystal-clear magnification of the rifle’s powerful scope, I take her in with one swift assessment.
Young and slight. Mousy blondish hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Baggy gray sweatpants and flip-flops. Eyeglasses and an ill-fitting sweatshirt.
Something about her appearance suggests she’s homeless.
Or careless, at least. Her clothing is wrinkled. Her hair is scraggly. The way the sweatpants hang from her hips suggests malnourishment.
Perhaps Declan is adopting a refugee.
