I’ll beunmade.
Godfuckingfuck! I rake my nails against my scalp, then pound my hands against my head, wishing I could knock the racing thoughts out of my stupid head.
It’s all the inactivity. Cabin fever. Literally.
I know I shouldn’t complain, but I have been stuck in this damn bed for awhole week. I don’t know how much more I can take!
Jude gave me a splint for my leg, but it feels more like a shitty ankle monitor. Calf monitor.
The worst part? They’ve all been on their best behavior. They bring me food. Carry me to the bathroom. Jude runs a bubble bath for me every day and washes my back before using that tongue of wicked fire on me.
That’s part of the problem. Stupid Kinship Law. Raphael’s law. He gets me first. And then, he lets them off their chicken-shit leashes.
For fuck’s sake, it’s worship at least eight times a day since they all try to outdo one another. Pretty sure it’s a game to see who can make me come the fastest.
And to keep me exhausted, resting, and healing. In this bed. No, it’s more of a royal sex prison with a rotation of horny, virile captors. Except no sex, of course.
By breakfast, I have had it!
I need downstairs. Or I needdick. I’ll take either.
Thankfully, Pew Pew is in the laundry area, litter training with Vincent. Not here to witness my bad mood. He said the little guy is doing well.
Rory sweeps into the room, carrying a tray with one of those silver domed things that cover the food. I don’t remember the name. I huff, arms crossed. Insufferable. “Kiss the Cook” is written on the apron. And all he wears beneath is his fucking kilt. Suspenders over his bare muscles, the red curls covering his upper chest. Other than him, only Vincent and Raphael have chest hair. I’m convinced Jude and Seth wax or shave.
“Your breakfast, mi’Lass.” He makes a patronizing show.
I like him better when he’s spitting sociopathic fire at me. I go over options in my brain. Snarky reference to his ear? Threats of more pranks? Refusing to eat? Letting him fuck my ass?—Okay, I will never do that one—butsomethingto get me out of this damn bed.
As soon as he removes the bubble thing, the smell of bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes, and a honeyed biscuit drifts through my nose. A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mouth waters.
I don’t eat yet. I just sit here. Arms crossed. A big fat frown on my face.
Rory lowers his brows, smile slipping, big stupid muscles bulging. “The fuck is wrong?”
I stick my nose up in the air. “The food isn’t wrong. The bed is. Take me downstairs to the table.”
He glances at the door, his gaze hesitant before turning back to me. “Jude said you’re supposed to stay in bed. If you prefer it t’be shaking under you, that can be arranged.” His lips twist to one side.
“For fuck’s sake, Red! Please, I need some air!” I make my best puppy dog pouty face, softening my features and lips. If that doesn’t work, then it’s back to the goddess wrath complex. “I just wanna go downstairs. The front porch max, I promise. You can hold me the whole time.”
I need to feel the wind on my face, smell the Redwood and crisp pines. Winter is coming, and we’ll have to hibernate soon.
He taps his chin with that infuriating glint in his eye. “Poor Lass. Your leg may be splinted. But does someone need big Red to spread those pretty thighs and eat her arse?”
I groan and tip my head back. “NO! The one time, theONEtime I want you to break the rules, you bloody Scottish pussy!”
He growls in his throat. “What did you say?”
Without thinking, I grab the syrup-coated pancake and chuck it at him. It bounces off his chest, dripping syrup onto his skin. He clenches his hands into fists, a muscle bouncing in his jaw, his eye twitching. But I don’t let him get a beat in before throwing the biscuit at him. I grin, mad and wild.
“Forget ass-eating. Ye need an ass-beating, Firecracker.” He steps toward the bed, and I leer, scooting the tray onto the bedside table. For the first time in a week, my blood is heating up. I want a fight. And he’s the best one to target.
He crouches over the bed, fists balled, just a thread from me. “Ye be a good girl, and I won’t bend ye over this bed and feed that smart mouth something else piping hot.”
“Wrongmouth, Rory.” I stick out my tongue and notice his kilt, where he’s tenting the fabric. Dropping the bed sheet, I lower the straps of my silk slip, squeezing my shoulders, teasing with my cleavage.
He bares his teeth. “Ye know Kinship Law.”
