As my men start in on the door, I pick up Scarlett, carrying her into the bedroom.
“I can walk, you know.” She wraps her arms around my neck, all the same.
“I’d rather ye not pitch headfirst into the fireplace.” Setting her down, I get a water bottle from the little fridge by the window and two pain relievers from the med kit in my bag. “Take these now, it’ll save ye some suffering when ye wake up.”
She’s just drunk enough to take the pills without complaint, finishing half the bottle before trying to put it on the bedside table. “There’s two of these stupid tables,” she says crossly. “Which one am I supposed to use?”
Plucking it from her hand, I set it down within reach. “Time for bed.”
“Aren’t you gonna light the fireplace first?” Scarlett smiles at me slyly. “It’s sochillyin here, isn’t it?”
I walk over, restacking the wood properly and holding her gaze, I snap my fingers. A blaze leaps up eagerly and I warm my hands for a moment before setting the fire screen and returning to her.
“You’re dozing off, lass, right here on your feet.” Pulling back the thick comforter, I help her climb onto the mattress, fluffing her pillow.
“That’s so nice,” she smiles, already half asleep. “No one’s tucked me into bed since my mom died.”
“How old were ye?” I sit next to her, smoothing the hair back from her flushed face.
“Ten,” she murmurs drowsily. “Thank you.”
My wife takes my hand and rolls over, wrapping her arms around it like it’s a teddy bear and is deep in drunken slumber in seconds.
With a sigh, I kick off my boots and shove a pillow behind my back, feeling the warmth of her curled along my side, and my hand in a death grip, watching the sky slowly lighten to dawn.
The Polis at a trap house - Scottish slang for the cops reading a drug house.
Gawkin’ - Scottish slang for ogling or staring lustfully.
Crabbit - Scottish slang for cranky or ill-tempered.
Grafting - Scottish slang for aggressively flirting.
Blootered - Scottish slang for getting drunk.
Chapter Eighteen
In which there’s nothing better than a cozy Scottish morning.
Scarlett…
Oh, this is so nice.
Murder Mittens is snuggling me, but she’s grown into an enormous creature because I’m curled up against her and she’s enveloping me like a glorious, furry blanket.
That’s… not fur.
My head is resting on Wallace’s sculpted pectorals; his crisp mat of chest hair is tickling my cheek. It takes me much longer than is proper to appreciate how his broad chest swells with each deep breath in sleep.
I don’t know when he unbuttoned his shirt but I’d like to send it a fruit basket for doing the decent thing and falling open because this is a sight I never want to unsee. Forget a six pack. This is aneightpack, abs chiseled enough that I could grate cheese on them.
And tattoos. So many of them. His chest is anexplosion, a riot of ink in violent and beautiful shapes. Roaring across his chest is a lion in vivid detail, mid-flight, as if it’s about to pounce on its prey and tear it apart. There’s a snarling black wolf on his abdomen - it has the MacTavish green eyes. I look back to the lion and its vicious gaze is amber, just like Wallace’s.
Interesting. The two sides of his family?
Black roses curl along one bicep, a sickle moon weeping tears into a river on his other arm. I can just catch the tip of a flame shooting up his neck, the rest of the tattoo must start on his back. I inch up slightly, wanting to see more, when his eyes abruptly open. His five o’clock shadow is growing into a proper beard and his full lips curve into a little, knowing grin.
“How long have you been awake?” I say accusingly, dipping my head to wipe the drool marks off my face, trying to regain any semblance of dignity I might have left.
