Page 54 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“It’s not about winning,” Rory murmurs, and a tiny, faraway part of me screams that I’m not a prize to be won by anyone, to be treated like a doll at a funfair. “It’s about unity.” His gaze drifts across to me and he adds, when I’ve stopped moving, “Take off your dress.”

And yet I do as he orders. I slide the denim sleeves down my shoulders and shrug the fabric from my body. It peels off me, slipping down my arms and past my hips, to pool around my ankles like the deep blue sea.

The devil stares back at me.

Rory drinks in my nakedness, his eyes raking my body like there’s much to admire, much to know and memorize. All the secrets of me, exposed and laid bare in the night air for him.

And Finlay, I remind myself distantly. Finlay’s watching me, too.

“You aren’t wearing any underwear,” Rory remarks lightly, his gaze sliding from my bare breasts to my hidden curls and back again.

“No.”

“If I’d have known…” His lips tighten, suppressing a deep groan that buries itself in his throat. “I could have had you. At any moment, you could have been on the end of my fingers. My cock. I could have been inside you by now. I could have unrolled your skirt and slid my hand under and made you come a thousand times. And I didn’t even know.”

“Stop,” Finlay mutters, and I’m surprised to find his eyes screwed shut. It makes me wonder if he’s even looked at me naked. “Please. If you two wantae dae yer thing, fine. But leave me the hell oot o’ it.”

“We need you,” Rory says. “You’re our witness.”

Finlay heaves a sigh. “Rituals dinnae need witnesses. I know ye’re just makin’ this up tae suit yer agenda.”

“What agenda’s that?” Rory asks innocently.

“She’s yours. I get it.” And then, softer still, “You’re hers. I get it.” Finlay turns, making his way back through the grassy clearing, and something like panic grabs at my heart.

“Don’t go.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, before I can return the genie to its bottle. “I want you here.”

“Fuck, sassenach.” Finlay stands rooted to the spot, grass and wildflowers grazing his boots. “Ye’re askin’ miracles o’ me.”

“Please stay.” And then I add, with all the truth inside my heart, with all the truth I should have revealed long ago, “I want you.”

He looks at me then, finally, his eyes traveling from my bare feet and up my legs, to the dark triangle of curls and the dip of my curving waist. His gaze flits between each breast, as though unsure which to cherish more, before sliding up the nape of my neck, my chin and lips and eyes.

He meets my gaze squarely, never slipping once. “How can ye want me? You have Rory.” He says this like it’s unfathomable, as though Rory is so all-consuming a prize that there could never be any desire left over, and certainly not for the likes of Finlay.

As though, for Finlay too, Rory is the ultimate honor.

He’s too blinded by his infatuation for Rory to see his own worth.

He glances over at Rory as though asking for permission. Whatever he sees in Rory’s expression, it must be something encouraging enough for him to return to the sand and stone of the banks along the water. He tugs off his black boots while hopping toward us, tossing them into the shadowed trees, and stands as though awaiting command.

The command comes, and it’s not one I expect.

“Fin,” Rory says, an undeniable touch of fondness in his tone, “be a good boy and take off my trousers, won’t you?”

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