Scythe & Sparrow: Chapter 12

Fionn

“There’s 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.”

There’s a muffled protest from Rowan and an unfamiliar woman’s voice interjects in the tone of a pained and tired plea. There are a few resigned words from my brother that I can’t make out, a beat of silence—and then a burst of laughter.

“His nickname is Shitflicker,” Rose finally says, and my triumphant cackle echoes through the empty clinic as I lean back in my office chair.

“That’s my brother Rowan. Tell him I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” I hang up and the smile lingers as I push aside my paperwork and lock up to walk home. There’s a car I don’t recognize in the driveway when I arrive. I can almost feel Rowan’s energy before I even reach the door. When I open it, he’s at the table with Rose, and relief courses through my veins when she looks at me and smiles. It’s a moment that only lasts as long as a blink.

The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as my brother rises and heads straight for me. “Where the fuck have you been, dickhead?”

“Work, dumbass. I had to get some paperwork out.”

Rowan wraps me in a tight embrace. There’s tension in his arms. I might not believe in auras, but I can sense his distressed energy like a halo that lights up the room. We separate just enough for him to press his forehead to mine the way we’ve done since we were kids, and then he lets me go to stare into my eyes. I’ve never seen him so wound up. So … agonized. His focus shifts to the living room and sticks there, and I follow his gaze.

“This is Sloane.”

A woman with raven hair watches me from the couch, an angry boot print stamped on the center of her forehead, two crescent bruises beneath her lashes contrasting with her sharp hazel eyes. Her left shoulder hangs lower than the other and she cradles her forearm to stabilize it. She might be injured, but I’ve heard enough about her history from Rowan to know that she’s probably the most dangerous person in my house right now. Which is saying something.

I go to the couch with Rowan on my heels, so close I can still feel his nervous energy humming at my back. When I stop in front of Sloane, he drops to a crouch at her legs. She lets go of her injured arm to take his hand. “I’m Fionn,” I say, and she lifts her gaze from the silent exchange she seems to be having with my brother and turns her attention to me. “Can I have a look at that shoulder?”

Sloane swallows and nods, wincing as she tries to pry her injured arm from her body. I palpate the joint, feeling the head of her humerus and the edges of the glenoid fossa and the acromion of her scapula. “How did this happen?” I ask as I prod the swollen tissue.

“I fell off a roof.”

“More like got tossed from a roof by that ugly motherfucker,” Rowan snarls.

“He got what he deserved. And I consider it a win for me.”

“Blackbird—”

“Murder games aside,” I interject, “are there any other injuries I should know about?”

“Other than this?” Rowan says, pointing to her bruised face. The look Sloane gives me is unamused. “No.”

I pull my hand away from her shoulder and gently press her nasal bones, but despite the dried blood that rims her nostrils, nothing feels noticeably broken or out of place. “Seems all right. Did you lose consciousness?”

“Yes, for maybe a minute.”

“And she vomited.”

Sloane winces, a hint of blush coloring her cheeks, but Rowan merely squeezes her hand. I hold my finger in front of her face and ask her to track it. Her dilated pupils lag slightly in following the motion. A concussion is likely, and she seems to already know it. “Yeah … You won’t want to be driving for a little while. Try to take it easy.”

“Figured.”

“And the shoulder?” Rowan asks. He might try his best to hide it, but I’ve seen fear in Rowan more times than I can count. It’s there in his eyes, in the tic of the muscle along his jaw. “Will she need surgery?”

“No,” I say, and his breath of relief is audible. “Normally, I’d advise going to the hospital for an X-ray to be sure nothing is fractured, but I’m guessing you want to keep yourselves as off the radar as possible, given the circumstances.” They both nod, and I glance toward Rose as she watches off to the side, her expression grim. “We need to get to my clinic so I can inject the joint with lido and manipulate the bone back into place. And it’s going to hurt. But it will feel a lot better after that.”

Rose’s crutches tap on the hardwood as she hobbles closer to the couch. “I’ve got some button-up shirts that will fit you. I’ll grab a few in case you’d rather cut that one off.”

Sloane’s expression softens and a tired smile spreads across her lips. “That’s really kind. Thank you.”

With a nod, Rose pats Sloane’s good shoulder and swings her way to her room. Sloane watches until she disappears from view. When Sloane meets my eyes, there’s so much I can read from them, so much she tries to tell me in a single, lingering glance. She likes Rose. She trusts her. But she doesn’t trust me. Even though I’ve been through medical school. Even though I’ve saved lives. Fixed injuries. Delivered the occasional baby. Held the most vulnerable life in my palms. I can tell Sloane sees right through me.

You are living a lie, she seems to say as her eyes stay fixed to mine. And if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.

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.

Sloane’s gaze finally disconnects from mine. It lands on my knuckles, where the scabs are still healing, their edges red. Then she turns her attention to Rowan, who doesn’t seem capable of looking at anything but her. He doesn’t miss the pointed glance she directs at my hands before I can hide them.

Okay, so she’s definitely ready to kill me.

“What have you been up to, brother?” Rowan asks as he grabs my wrist. I close my fist and wrench free of his grasp, and he grins. “Getting into some fights, are we?”

“None of your business, Rowan.”

“So that’s a yes.” I scowl at him and rise, heading to the kitchen for no other reason than to get away. Of course, being the annoying older brother he is, Rowan follows. “Got anything to do with the little banshee?”

“Her name is Rose, you fucking asshole,” I hiss as I turn on him. Though I step right into his space, he doesn’t budge. He just smiles at me like this is all a fucking game, one that he’s winning.

“Another yes, then. What happened?”

“Do you remember that time about ten seconds ago when I told you it was none of your business? It’s still none of your fucking business.”

Rowan falls into silence. I turn my back on him to fill a couple water bottles. His voice is softer than I expect when he says, “She was pretty clear there’s nothing going on between you. Didn’t get the impression she was happy about it though. So it begs the question, why not?”

I turn off the water and grip the edge of the sink. “Rowan—”

“And if you say ‘Claire,’ I’m going to punch you in your fucking throat—”

“It’s not Claire.” I wheel around to face him. Rowan’s smirk might be teasing but worry still hides in his eyes. “It’s me.”

His eyes narrow, that smirk of his long gone. “What about you?”

“I’m her doctor, for one thing.”

“Forbidden. I like it. Makes it ten times hotter.”

I groan and swipe a hand down my face. “I’m not … I can’t … I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Who said anything about a relationship, you feckin’ eejit? You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’re allowed to have fun.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to use her for fun.”

“Didn’t say you would. But she is a grown-ass adult woman who might also want to have fun. Did you ever think about that?”

I’d like to say, No, I have not, but truth is, I think about it a lot. Probably every waking hour, in fact. How it would be nice to have something easy, something with no strings attached, no responsibility to hold myself to a standard that seems more and more impossible to maintain. It would be nice to be in the moment with someone, without worrying about the future and the kind of person I might not be despite the years I’ve spent molding myself to fit that box.

I open my mouth to try to rationalize my inertia, but the increasingly weak argument evaporates when I hear the guest room door close at the end of the hall and the tap, tap, tap of Rose’s crutches as she enters the living space. Rowan gives me a pitying look and draws me into an embrace before she can join us. I sigh. “Maybe you should give yourself a break,” Rowan whispers in my ear. “You’re a dumbass, but you’re a good man. You deserve to have fun too. And I like the little banshee.”

He claps me on my back and heads toward the living room, tossing a grin over his shoulder as he goes. But then it’s Rose’s magnetic pull that draws my attention away. She stops in front of me with a gentle smile, her eyes soft, three rumpled shirts hanging from the handle of her crutches.

“Let me know if I can help.”

I’m more worried about her passing out when I start the closed reduction procedure, but I nod instead. “Maybe you can help distract her, if she wants.”

“Yeah,” she says as she watches Rowan help Sloane to her feet, his nervous energy peeling from him in waves. “Man-guy there is about as calm as a monkey on a gridiron.”

“Man-guy …?”

“Long story.” With a final, fleeting smile, she leads the way out the door. We take two vehicles, Rowan and Sloane following Rose and me in their rental car.

When we get to the clinic, I inject Sloane’s joint with lidocaine, and after fifteen minutes I start the procedure to manipulate her bone back into place. We take it slow, pausing to wait for her muscles to relax, for the pain to become a little more bearable. Rowan never lets go of her good hand. He reminds her to breathe. Tells her she’s brave, and tough, and so strong. I don’t know how much of it registers as she closes her eyes and grits her teeth against the agony. When the bone finally shifts into correct alignment, she takes a deep, unsteady breath. Rowan rests his head next to hers and I look to Rose, who’s sitting in the corner of the room, her gaze not straying from the couple even though I’m sure she feels me watching.

After a few moments of rest and some pain meds, Rose gets Sloane into a fresh shirt and pair of leggings, and then I fit her with a sling before we leave.

Rose and I don’t talk on the short drive home. We don’t talk much over dinner either when I really think about it. We mostly converse with Sloane and Rowan, and not directly to each other, even when Sloane announces she’s too exhausted to stay up any longer and Rowan briefly leaves to help her get situated in the other guest room they’ll share. There’s a tension that’s settled between us, one I find difficult to pin down. I’d like to think it’s instinct, that too many apex predators in one place has set us on edge. Or that it’s the discomfort of being in the presence of two people who have so obviously just realized they’re falling in love. But it’s not that. And I know it. It’s the tension that comes with wanting so much more than you’re willing to take.

Now it’s close to midnight. And I’m still wide-awake. Because there are muffled voices from the guest room across the hall where Rowan and Sloane are staying. Voices whose words are indecipherable, but the tone is unmistakable. Desire. Desperation. Demands. There’s a low chuckle. I hear the creak of the mattress through the thin walls. A moment later, there’s a loud moan from Sloane.

“Fuck. My. Life,” I groan as I pull a pillow across my face.

It does not stop. For hours. I try falling asleep with my earbuds and a playlist of white noise, but all the white noise in the world can’t cover up the occasional scream. I swear to Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to murder my brother more than I have tonight. And I’m almost positive he’s rubbing my self-imposed celibacy in my fucking face. You’re allowed to have fun, he’d said just this afternoon.

Maybe he’s right. Would it be so bad to want something easy if Rose wanted it too? If we made no promises about where it would go? She won’t stay here forever. Once she’s fully recovered, she’ll be back on the road.

It’s finally quiet when I sit up on the edge of my bed and put my earbuds away. I stand and leave my room as though summoned by a force I can barely resist, not stopping until I’m standing outside Rose’s room.

I close my palm around the handle. Rest my head against the door. My other hand is poised to knock. I can almost feel the tap of my skin against the wood.

I let out a long, slow breath, and uncurl my fingers from the lever one by one.

I return to my room. Stare at the ceiling in the dark.

And for the first time, I ask myself:

What would happen if I stopped trying so hard to be a different man?