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

by Brynne Weaver

“Are you, like, a real doctor?” I blink at her. “Yes …?” “You don’t sound sure.” “I’m pretty sure. Put your mask back on—” “You look like a TV doctor. Dr. McSpicy or something. What are your credentials?”

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

While Lachlan is a broody asshat, Rowan is fucking nuts, and will go to literally any lengths to make a point or get what he wants, no matter how reckless or ridiculous or absurd. The two of them together are the worst, and the torment would be never-ending if they found out all the details of my life at present.

I try to stay professional. Detached. But I feel like I’m caught in her orbit, sucked in by her gravitational pull. And now I’m trying to sense that gravitational pull from outside her door, like some kind of fucking weirdo stalker.

A look of shock passes over his face and he darts to his feet, scattering his dried veggies across the floor. “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.”

“Have you been living in Hartford, Doc? Or have you just been hidin’ out in it?”

“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.”

“You don’t have to try so hard to be somebody else,” I say, and Fionn meets my eyes. “I like the dark too.”

But I finally realize I don’t care about the illusion of light anymore. My Rose blooms in the dark. And all I want is to grow there with her.

“It wasn’t staying on super well, so I … augmented it.” “Augmented it … with …?” When I break my gaze away with a cringe, she whacks my arm. “Rowan Kane—” “Poster paint.” The car sinks into an eerie silence. This might be how I die. My wife will probably murder me and dump my body into a field.

“He looks like a dumpster goblin.” Lachlan lets out a watery laugh and turns his glassy eyes to me over his shoulder. “I think we’ve just officially replaced your Shitflicker nickname. Dumpster Goblin suits you.” “Especially now that it’s permanent,” Lark pipes up. When I glance her way, she’s wiping a track of tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “I really need to know if this is actually permanent,” I say as I start peeling off a scale glued to my cheek. Fionn scratches his stubble as he watches me from beneath the arm Lachlan keeps slung over his shoulder. “Will it come off?” “You didn’t tattoo it on there, did you?” “Of course not, dickhead.” “I’m sure you’re probably fine.” “‘Probably’ does not inspire much confidence,” I say, but Fionn only shrugs.