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.

“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.” “He … what?” Dr. Chopra lifts a shoulder. My brow furrows as I turn to face her. “He wasn’t transported out to a level-one trauma center?” “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.”

“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.

“Rose, he’s not the kind of person you want to fuck with.” His expression darkens, and it feels as though there’s no escaping his warning. “He was a Lincoln County deputy before he got himself suspended a few years back, something about an arrest that got out of hand. From what I heard, it was the last straw in a string of bad behavior on the job. Now he spends most of his time between two places. His farm outside Elmsdale, and the Fergusons’ grain mill. Which is literally next door,”

“Okay, fine. Next door is a few miles that way, but it’s still next door. Technically.”

A grin slowly ignites in his full lips. “You’re not going to serial kill me in my sleep, are you?” I shake my head. “Good. Then why don’t you pack up some of your essentials and we get the fuck out of here. This place gives me Children of the Corn vibes,” he says as he looks toward the seemingly feral group of kids on the swings.

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

“So, what, you just … left home?” “No,” she says. “I just left.”

“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.”

Maybe she sees the fold lines still pressed into the fabric from when I bought it just this morning. Maybe she realizes I bought it just for her, in the hopes she might agree to stay. Rose turns her smile toward me. The warmth of it hits me like a dart to the chest. “Yeah,” she finally says. “I think that’s okay.”

“What … the fuck … is happening?” he asks. I want to remind him that he’s a smart guy, he can probably figure it out. But I chew my lip and just wait for him to voice a few conclusions. “Did you … kill him?” “Umm, yes. But he’s not a good guy.” “And you called me to help you to what … get rid of him?” I shrug. “I got a little stuck. And you specifically said, ‘Any trouble whatsoever, call me.’ This is ‘trouble whatsoever.’” “I didn’t mean killing someone and disposing of their body.” “I did the killing part. I just need a little help with the disposal.”

I never thought I’d find crocheting meditative and soothing. But here we are. I’m sure my brothers would have a field day if they knew that I was holed up in my room like a hermit, spending my Saturday night crocheting a fucking blanket. But I guess they equally take the piss out of me for my “gym obsession,” or as Lachlan likes to call it, my “Dr. Bellend gym-bro phase.” And Rowan would be chiming in with some unhelpful suggestions, or even worse, he’d take up crocheting just long enough to make me a mankini for my birthday.

Turns out, she’s an avid crocheter, did you know that?” “No,” I reply as she leads me to the chair across from Rose and passes me a glass of lemonade. “I did not know that.” “I wouldn’t say ‘avid,’ necessarily.” Rose’s eyes don’t leave mine as she leans forward to grab her bag from the floor and opens it, withdrawing a ball of black yarn and a set of crochet hooks. “My gran taught me growing up, and I like to dabble from time to time. But I might be a little out of practice. I’m probably not as good as Doc.”

“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?”

“What about Tencel bamboo yarn? Soft and strong.” “Did you find a pattern?” Rose shrugs. I die a little. “I was just going to wing it.”

“You could use this, maybe make leg holes right here. Ooh, and what about an extra pair of hanging handles and ankle braces?” Sandra leans over to scrutinize the pattern, adjusting her reading glasses. “My Bernard could make you a wooden frame. It’ll have to be good and strong, don’t want something like that collapsing when you’re taking it for a ride, you know?”

“I think …” I trail off, drawing out her doubt before I finally give her the barest hint of a conspiratorial smile. “I think you should use a thermal stitch for the base. It’s sturdy. Could support the weight of a six-foot-four adult male. Theoretically.”

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.

“Fucking Barbara,” he hisses. I grab a crutch and hop up onto my good foot. “Yeah, fucking Barbara. Let’s fuck her up,” I say, whipping my knife from the sheath at my back. “Who’s Barbara?” “The raccoon.” I blink at him as Fionn pockets his phone and strides to the table to grab his truck keys. “Aww, I don’t want to fuck her up. She sounds cute.”

“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.”

Barbara stands upright on her hind legs. Neither of us moves. She looks at me as though weighing her odds for coming out of a fight on top. And then, with her beady black eyes pinned to mine and her front paws folded against her chest, she walks on her back legs into the room at the end of the hall. “Oh my God. That’s both creepy and adorable. Barbara, get back here.”

“Doc, you make her sound like a fucking velociraptor—” “Duck!”

I turn just in time to see an angry ball of fur launching toward me from a shelf just above eye level. My crutches fall. My hands fly to my head. I dodge and spin on my good foot to watch as Barbara connects with Fionn’s face. I toss the towel over them both. “Why?” the mound of squirming towel laments. “Sorry, Doc. So sorry,”

“It worked,” I reply with a shrug as Barbara continues to squirm in my grip. “You’re welcome.” “I’m going to have to get rabies shots.”

“It wasn’t really by choice. But I’d take a raccoon to the face for you any day, Rose Evans.”

“How about yourself, anything new and exciting in the world of Dr. Fionn Kane?” Fionn’s reply is delivered with clinical detachment when he says, “Nothing much to report.” Matt chuckles. My guts churn at the sound. I don’t know whether to burst out of the shadows and slash Matt’s fuck-ugly throat or chase after Barbara to hide out in her trash panda den.

“I’m just looking out for you. Making sure you’re all right.” “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You just never know who you might be dealing with, that’s all. Outsiders can cause trouble.”

“I was at Sandra’s, for a bit. But I got bored. One can only work on a sex swing for so long, I guess,” she replies with a shrug. “How … How did you get here?” “Larry.” An irrational spike of anger hits my chest like a lightning strike. “Who the fuck is Larry?”

“Please do not go stabbing anyone,” I say as I take a sterile pad and disinfect the handle before setting it back in its place. “I’m only going to be the one to put them back together again if you do.” Rose shrugs as though that’s not her problem. “One beer.” “Might as well bring two, save you another trip.” “One. You’re recovering. I’m your doctor. Doctor’s orders.”

I’ll take a bag of Skittles too, please.” “I don’t think they have Skittles.” “Trust me, they do.”

“This is great, Doc. Thanks for bringing me here.” I frown. “I didn’t. I’ve asked you to leave. Multiple times.” “I thought we were friends,”

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.”

“His nickname is Shitflicker,”

I’m fucking paranoid. She’s probably not thinking any of these things. She’s a serial killer for Chrissakes, how else is she supposed to look at me other than unnervingly? I already know she likes to take the eyes of her victims and string them up in a web of fishing line, and according to my smitten brother, she does it while they’re still alive. Of course she’s unhinged, and I’m just a little freaked out about having her in my house. That’s all this is.

“We’ll just keep talking.” “Right.” I nod. My head keeps bobbing, my lips pressed into a tight line, every muscle in my body coiled tight until a hidden wire inside me snaps. “Except for right now. With all due respect, Dr. Kane,” I say as I fold one hand behind his head, “shut the fuck up and eat my pussy.”

“If you don’t want me to stop, Rose,” he says with a dark smile and hooded eyes, “then you’ll keep your eyes on me.”

“God, yes. But what if you couldn’t find me?” My strokes slow. I hold her gaze. The urge to kiss her steals my breath. It takes every last thread of my restraint not to do it, and it leaves nothing else behind. Maybe she won’t see that every barrier I try to keep up has crumbled, if only for a heartbeat, when I say, “I will always find you, Rose.”

“Just because you finger fucked me on a plane doesn’t mean I want to get married, Dr. Kane,” I say as two women exit the elevator arm in arm. “You tell him, badass bitch,” one of them says as the other gives me a high five when they pass by.

“You think I haven’t figured that you might have seen and done some things you aren’t proud of? Or that you were more acquainted with darkness than you let on? Sorry, but even Rowan and Sloane were a bit of a giveaway. And I’ve seen the worst in people.

“It’s okay to love your darkness and still love yourself. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you a whole one.”

I’m going to knife that fucker in the balls. You take the balls, I’ll go for the throat. Sloane will want the eyes. Good. I hate the eyes.

“The Sparrow. That’s what the women call you,” I say, and she nods. “Have you ever heard of Giulia Tofana?” she asks. I shake my head when I open my eyes and meet her unwavering stare. “She was an Italian woman in the seventeenth century. She made a poison from arsenic and belladonna. As the story goes, she disguised it as face cream, so all a woman would have to do is come to her asking for Aqua Tofana.

When I roll over to fight him off, his glass eye is gone, leaving his lid half closed. But that’s not the one I’m focused on. My shocked gaze is caught on the other eye, bulging much too far beyond the confines of its socket. “Holy fucking shit, it’s true. I hit you so hard your eyeball popped out.”

“That too. But I was more referring to how you stabbed your father in the back and severed his spinal cord. Lachlan might have taken credit for that kill by strangling Callum Kane, but even he didn’t know that you’re the one who brought the bastard down, does he?” He studies me with that predatory glee still lingering in his eyes. “Quite a nifty little trick, isn’t it? If you aim just right,” Leander says with a sudden jabbing motion toward Cranwell’s body, his fist closed around a phantom weapon, “there’s hardly any blood at all. He must have felt nothing from the waist down. Just a quick snap and down he went so your brother could finish the job. Even I didn’t realize at first. Not until I cleaned up that mess and stripped Callum of his clothes.”

“Go, Rose. And if you don’t come back, I wish you well.” I nod. Press my eyes closed. Listen to his heart as we sway in the summer sun. “And take the raccoon with you. She keeps getting into the churro batter. Do you know how many batches I’ve thrown out?” I laugh, though it’s half-hearted. When he pulls away, José frames my face and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you like a daughter, pequeño gorrión. That will never change.”