So I chuck it to the ground before I wipe my hands on the apron and stomp out, making a beeline for the greenhouse next door. Almost finished. Seth and Vincent have been crafting and building nonstop since they came back from a city trip with all the necessary supplies. I got bored with the list of PVC pipes, plastic sheeting, and manual vent openers or whatever. Blood and guts are far more interesting.
But that constant hammering blended with the Lass’s pretty humming is driving me mad. And a mad me is not what anyone fucking wants.
Later tonight, I’ll show Seth just how fucking mad I am that he and Briella decided to construct the greenhouse so close to my goddamn butcher shed.
For now, I storm inside, nostrils flaring, hands clenched into fists at my side.
Briella looks up from her planting, shifting the soil or some shit.
Seth’s up on a ladder, securing the last of the poly sheeting along the rafters, his shirt plastered to his back with sweat. Vincent crouches by the door frame, measuring and cutting lengths of wood for the vent frames with that infuriating calm of his.
“Hey there, Red,” Briella chirps and blows me a mocking kiss with a pretty, rosy glow in her cheeks.
My cock jerks in my pants. Not like I haven’t been on my best damn behavior for the past two weeks. The chronic itching from the poison ivy and the tincture were dailyandnightly reminders to do what Raphael ordered. And it’s been a double layer of shit after shit. Two weeks. Two goddamn weeks, and none of us has fucked her. But she’s been mighty sweet to wear the butt plugs I’ve given her. We all still sleep naked according to Kinship Law. I always liked sleeping in the buff anyhow. Jude says it’s better for your health or some bullshit.
Other than that, no discipline or even worship of any kind.
I know that psycho bastard is testing her or some shit. But I miss eating her arse and getting her all hot and bothered. Her spitting and thrashing and cursing that one night got me so hard and hot. I replay it in my butcher shop and fist myself until I get off while draining the blood from the animals.
Briella’s plaid skirt swishes as she digs her hands into the soil again, shifting it, turning it, her back to me. Her plumparseto me.
Fuck, she looks good enough to feast on in that sheer white blouse, off-the-shoulders, tempting me with her pretty skin. Unblemished healed skin. My jaw sets, teeth dying to sink into her flesh again. She should always have my marks on her skinand my handprints on her bottom…or I’m not doing my job right.We’renot doing our jobs right.
Raphael has been way too lax, too fucking patient.
“Do any of ye have respect for my bloody job?” I demand, baring my teeth in a snarl. Emphasis on the bloody.
Vincent snaps up his head. “Your job of being an insane ignoramus?”
“Good one!” she laughs.
“Careful, Vincent,” I warn him, narrowing my eyes. “I make the meals. Could easily add peanut oil to anything, and you wouldn’t know it until your throat closes up.”
He shuts up at that. Fecking fool is still wearing that hoodie—pink knitting on the back.
“Need some attention, Rory?” Seth offers, flexing his goddamn muscles.
“Go fuck an axe, Seth,” I growl.
“Please…” Briella turns on her heel, her purplish brown curls framing her face, escaping her high ponytail. She waves to me with a cocky smile. “Tell us of your trials and tribulations, Red.”
I cross the space to her, admiring how she doesn’t back down when I cage her against the raised planters. Bold little Firecracker. “Gutting, skinning, and stripping Raphael’s hunts is one of the few times I get any fucking peace. It helps that dark beast within me, Lass,” I tell her, planting one hand on each side of her body, nailing my eyes to hers. “I don’t appreciate that peace being interrupted by all the constant jack-hammering and your incessant singing.”
She lifts her brows. “You can hear me singing? Why don’t you just close the windows?”
Duh. I lean closer, my lips brushing along her ear. “Ventilation.”
She shivers. Good Lass. And swallows hard. Sweet, sweet Lass.
“Care for another tune, Red?” She gets that mischievous glint in her eyes. “Like ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’?”
Fuming, I press my pelvis against hers, one hand reaching up to grip her throat. Oh, her audacity to invoke a well-known Scottish love song.
“No? Maybe ‘Danny Boy’?” she hints, beaming at me.
“Christ above, woman—ye tryin’ to kill me?” My brogue comes out more when my homeland be mocked. “Sing that ‘Danny Boy’ in front o’ me, and I’ll be diggin’ yer grave myself—and not with any o’ that sentimental shite either. I’ll plant ye with a proper rebel tune in yer ears.”
None of that watered-down song written by a fucking Brit.
