Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)

by Brynne Weaver

For those of you who read B&B and L&L and said, “Hell, I’ve already endured the ice cream and pizza, I might as well keep going” … you truly are my people. This one’s for you!

If you hit someone in the back of the head hard enough, you can pop their eyeballs right out of their face.

“Stop it. My question was about smashing that dickhead’s skull in. Not falling in love or some bullshit. Tell me about my actual question.”

“I’m not a thief. I’m a magician,” he says, and with a flutter of his hands, a flower appears on his palm. “The only thing I steal is hearts.”

Motion detected at front door. “Fucking Barbara,” I hiss as I pivot on my heel and retrace my path into town. I pull up my phone to open the video doorbell app. “I know it’s you, you fucking crazy—” I stop dead in my tracks. It’s … it’s definitely not Barbara at the office.

A streak of crimson paints the tiles in a long track that snakes through the waiting room. It passes the reception desk. Curves down the hallway like a horror script. This way to your violent death.

But somehow, when her eyes fuse to mine, that long-forgotten piece of me comes alive in the dark.

“You look like a TV doctor. Dr. McSpicy or something. What are your credentials?”

“Cranwell? You had Matt Cranwell in here?” I ask, and Dr. Chopra nods. “Yeah, I don’t think you’re far off with the belligerent prick assessment. What was he in for?” “He had a handful of cocktail sticks in his eye.”

“No. There was no salvaging the eye. Dr. Mitchell performed the surgery. Must have been an interesting story, but the delightful Mr. Cranwell wasn’t willing to share.” Dr. Chopra passes Rose’s chart back to me with a faint, weary smile. “You should go home and get some rest. When are you in next?”

And oh holy fuck, but he’s ten times hotter than I remember from the first time we met. He’s so pretty that it almost shocks me out of the burning ache in my chest at the circus leaving me behind. At least until I realize I probably look about as appealing as a bag of dicks.

“Rose is my pequeño gorrión. My little sparrow. One of my best performers.”

I might have been abandoned here, left in a cage. Maybe my wings have been clipped. But I can still fly.

“You’ll be fine on your own. You’re not afraid of the murder children. Because you’re a fierce, independent woman.” And I believe that too. At least, I do until I stop at the door of my motor home. “Fuck.”

“McSpicy …?” I squint at him, my gaze darting toward the classic Ford F-250 parked nearby, my motorcycle strapped upright in the bed. “What are you doing here?” “Scaring the shit out of you, by the looks of things. I’m sorry about that.”

“I’ll manage.” “Yeah, I heard that. But you’d manage better at my house,” he blurts out. His eyes widen as though the words have escaped his control.

But I think it’s just an essence, like a vibration in the air, something I can’t touch or taste. Something I just know. I’m safe with him.

When she gets to the narrow porch, she turns toward me and offers a weary but triumphant smile. I try not to be spellbound by it, but I think I fail.

shoulders. But there’s a mischievous streak in her that I think is maybe just a little fissure that leads to an endless well of chaos.

“I knew that—” “Probably having second thoughts about letting me in your house now though, right?” Maybe. “No.” “That was totally a maybe. It’s cool, I’ll be one hundred percent fine with the corn children, trust me,” she says, flashing me a smile as she firms her grip on the crutches and swings closer to the stairs.

Lachlan was right. I’m knee-deep in my peak “Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever” era.

She makes a slicing motion through the air in front of her and then places the object on her deck. Though I want to ask her about it, I don’t, already feeling thrown off course by her presence without broaching the realm of crystals and divination.

“To be honest, I was relieved it wasn’t the raccoon again. Do you know how hard it is to get a codeine-addicted raccoon out of a ventilation system? Fucking hard.”

“Please just stay. I promise I’ll bring you to the clinic so you can watch me get my ass handed to me the next time the trash panda infiltrates the fortress. I’ll be worried about you with the corn children if you go back.”

“Fur.” I nearly say something stupid, like I like carpet, or Fur is hot, or probably fifty other dumbass options that suddenly cancel out anything professional or, God forbid, clever.

“Fur is human.” “Fur hurts like a bitch when it gets stuck in tape.” “Just wait until you get the cast.” “It’ll hurt?” “No. But once we take it off, you might be able to braid it.”

“Maybe you’ve got a little vicious streak hidden away in you, Dr. Kane,”

“But you’ve got a kind streak too. And I like them both. Equally.”

But she’s right. Maybe I do have a vicious streak. And I need to remember that. Because it doesn’t seem so disconnected from the rest of me anymore.

hear the hiss of a can opening as he cracks a beer, as though that’s perfectly normal. Where are we headed? I have no fucking idea. But I’m sure it will be an adventure. That’s how I have to think of it. An adventure.

It’s now or never. I toss the blanket aside as I burst from my hiding place, my shining new blade clutched tight in my fist. “Ta-da, motherfucker.”

His face is smeared with blood, his skin pale. His half-lidded eyes are pleading. “Don’t look at me like that,” I snarl. “You know you’re a piece of shit.”

“I started it.” “You started it …” “Yeah.” “Aren’t you supposed to say he started it?” “Probably. Maybe he did start it with the whole dickhead-phone-call-fish-loser thing. So, more accurately, I guess I finished it …?”

know what it’s like to hide, and I know what it’s like to be found. It can be exhilarating to be seen. And it can be terrifying to be exposed.

“Dear God,” Fionn says, and it comes out more like a resigned groan than any true shock. “This is a fucking travesty.” “I know, right? What a waste of good beer on this asshole.” “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

But from the moment Rose showed up, she’s invaded my thoughts as though she’s stripping my immunity, cell by cell. But it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s her.

With every day that had passed that week, I realized I didn’t feel the way any decent person would for selling out their own father. Me? I felt relief. Even pride. I felt fucking invincible. But I was just a kid.

I try to stay professional. Detached. But I feel like I’m caught in her orbit, sucked in by her gravitational pull.

“Hey, Doc. How’s it hangin’?” I come to a dead stop in Sandra’s foyer, my jaw slack, my expression dumbfounded. Rose is surrounded by the Suture Sisters crochet group, her leg propped up on an ottoman and a backpack resting next to her on the floor. A sly grin spreads across Rose’s face as she watches me standing motionless like a malfunctioning robot, my brain seemingly detached from my body.

How the fuck did she get here and why the hell is this simultaneously grinding my gears and adorable and hot as fuck?

“What are you making, dear?” “A sex swing.”

“You’ll need a softer heft for that. Maybe try the MillaMia merino.” “You might want to consider a tighter crochet stitch.” “Is it for you?” Maude asks without looking up. “Or does it need to take the weight of an adult man? Like, say”—her eyes flick to me—“maybe the doctor’s size?”

“I dunno. Those crochet hooks could do some damage.” “And while we’re on the topic of crochet, a sex swing? Seriously?” “I figured it would be a good distraction. It worked.” “You’re nuts.” “I’ve been living with you for a week, and I killed a guy yesterday and you’re just figuring that out now? I still think we need to revisit the conversation about your credentials, Dr. Kane.”

But she doesn’t feel like someone to fear. She feels like someone to trust. And that scares me.

I tamp down a grin, pretending to focus on my own crochet project, which I guess will be a sex swing after all because why not? Sandra called the other day to let me know that her husband was making me a frame, even though it’s probably not going to see much use since I’m on the driest dry spell ever. “I think Dani and Renegade are going to win.”

“Yeah, fucking Barbara. Let’s fuck her up,” I say, whipping my knife from the sheath at my back. “Who’s Barbara?” “The raccoon.”

“Trust me, she’s not so cute when she’s gotten into the medication cabinet. Or the break room. Or basically anywhere.”

“She might look cute,” he says as he helps me up into the vehicle, “but don’t let her deceive you. She’ll tear your face off to get what she wants.”

“Are you talking about me, or the raccoon?” Fionn huffs. “Both, probably. So I guess you’ll be evenly matched.”

“Trust me. She’s not gone. She’s lying in wait to ambush us.” “Okay,” I say as I shift my shoulders back. “Where’s the comms device?” Fionn’s eyes narrow as he hands me a beach towel. “Walkie-talkie? Riot gear? Lasers? Surely you brought lasers, right? You’re not expecting we can take down an assassin raccoon with nothing more than a towel, are you?”