I ring the doorbell.

We wait.

I pound three times on the door.

We wait longer.

“Fucking Fionn,” I hiss. “He’s probably playing Metallica full-blast on his headphones as he does eight thousand burpees, the little shit.”

Sloane glances up at me, her pain now infused with worry. I give her my best attempt at a reassuring smile before I press a kiss to her temple.

“He knows we’re coming. It’ll be okay. He won’t let us down,” I say as I wrap a hand around the doorknob.

Unlocked.

I roll my eyes—of all people, Fionn Kane should know better. “For such a smart guy, he’s a fucking dumbass sometimes.”

The house is quiet as we step inside. It’s quaint as fuck. Definitely Fionn in his peak ‘Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever’ era, just like Lachlan said. There’s even a lace doily on the coffee table.

Leading the way farther into the living space, I start heading toward the kitchen where I can see a rear door to the backyard. “Peckerhead,” I call out to the silent house. “Stop dicking around.”

Something cracks me across the skull. Stars explode within my vision.

“Dick this, motherfucker!”

A woman’s screech precedes a second hit that whacks my hand where I clasp it to the sore spot on top of my head. I manage to grab the weapon and rip it free of her grasp. Sloane is yelling behind me, a series of ‘whoa, whoa, whoas,’ as I wield the club with one hand while I try to keep Sloane behind me with the other. Except, the club isn’t really a club, but…a crutch…?

“Who the fuck are you?” a small, twenty-something, dark-haired banshee of a woman yells, hobbling into my field of vision as she takes a swipe at me with her remaining crutch. I hit it out of her hand and it spirals across the hardwood, but the little demon manages to stay upright. I’m about to jab her chest with my crutch in an attempt to push her over when she whips a hunting knife from behind her back, the blade nearly as long as her arm. “I said, who the fuck are you?”

“Me? Who the fuck are—”

“Did you do that to her face?” she snarls. She points the tip of her blade between me and Sloane, who’s now by my side with her good hand raised in a placating gesture. “You did that?”

“No, Jesus—”

“I’ll cut you—”

“How about everyone just settle down. I think this is all a simple misunderstanding,” Sloane says as she takes a careful step closer to the little banshee. “What’s your name?”

The banshee’s dark eyes dart to Sloane and stick there. “Rose.”

“Rose. Cool, okay. Nice. I’m Sloane.”

“You look like one of the bally broads kicked you in the face in clown alley,” Rose says.

Sloane blinks. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “I…I honestly have no idea what that means. But he didn’t do it, I swear.”

“Right, sure.” Rose scoffs, her eye roll nearly as good as Sloane’s. She takes a hobbling step closer, but the cast thuds on the floor and she grimaces. “He just nudged you with his foot, did he? Just a love tap? You don’t need to protect this piece of shit, honey. I’ll fucking cut his balls off,” she growls, pointing the tip of her blade toward me. I try to knock it with the end of her crutch but she dodges my swipe before Sloane steps between us.

“No, really. See? Carhartt logo. Right there,” Sloane says, tipping the brim of her hat up to point at the circle stamped on her forehead. She waves her hand behind her in the general vicinity of my feet. “He’s more of a Converse guy.”

“Where’s the motherfucker who did that to your face?”

“He’s dead.”

“Then who the fuck is this crutch-stealing fleabag?”

“He’s Rowan,” Sloane says, gesturing at me again. Rose narrows her eyes as though this is insufficient information. “He’s my f-fr…boy. Guy. A man-guy. I’m…with. Here.”

I snort a laugh as Rose’s face scrunches. “Man-guy,” I echo. “Real smooth, Blackbird.”

“Shut up,” Sloane hisses as she glances over her shoulder at me as though she’s unsure if she should relinquish the details of Fionn being my brother. I hike my eyebrows in reply and press my lips shut. “Little help before I get knifed?”

I shake my head. “Man-guy shutting up, as requested.”

Sloane groans, her eye roll putting Rose’s earlier efforts to shame. I swear her eyes even go in different directions before she turns back to the woman with a blade up in her face. “Look, I’m in need of some medical help, obviously. Fionn is a doctor, right? He also happens to be this crutch-thieving fleabag’s brother.”

Rose’s suspicious glare slices between us. She deliberates for a long moment before she pulls a phone from her pocket, her knife still pointed in our direction and her eyes straying from us only long enough to select a contact to call. I can hear the faint ring as she presses the phone to her ear, then my brother’s muffled greeting.

“There’s a beat-up chick here with a tall guy claiming to be your brother. He stole my fucking crutch,” Rose bites out. She falls silent as Fionn says something in the background, and her eyes then fix to me like lasers. She jerks her chin once in my direction. “He’s asking to confirm your childhood nickname.”

Blood drains from my extremities as my gaze darts to Sloane. I shake my head. “No.”

That seems to delight the hellcat—Rose’s responding smile is fucking feral. “Great. Then I knife you in the balls.”

“Yeah? Hobble over here and try it,” I snarl. I try to poke her with the rubber end of the crutch but Sloane bats it away.

“For fucksakes, you two. I’ve got a messed up arm here. I need a doctor,” Sloane says, shifting side-to-side at the waist to give a demo of her limp appendage. She turns enough to give me one sad-puppy eye. The longer she stares at me, the more my resolve crumbles. Her lower lip juts out in a pout, and even though it might be fake, I know I’m a fucking goner. “Help me, Man-guy.”

A long groan rumbles in my chest as I drag a hand over my face. “Fuck. Fine.” Both women watch me with unwavering stares, their eyebrows hiked in anticipation. “Shitflicker.”

They face one another. There’s a moment of blessed silence.

And then a fit of giggles.

Rose relays my response back to Fionn and I hear him cackling on the line before he gives her some clipped instructions and disconnects the call. She pockets her phone and sheathes the blade as Sloane tugs the crutch free of my grip and passes it over to her.

Great. These two are going to be best friends now. Just what I need.

“Okay, Shitflicker. I guess you passed the test. Fionn will be home in fifteen to sort you out.”

“Hold on a second. You haven’t told us why the fuck you’re here,” I say as Rose rakes a dismissive smirk over my features.

“Maybe I’m Fionn’s Girl-chick, Mr. Man-guy Flick-a-shit.”

Sloane snorts a laugh. I take her good elbow, guiding her to the couch as I keep my glare pinned on Rose. “God help us all.”

Rose hobbles away on her crutches, muttering something about ‘worse than the circus’, whatever the fuck that means. I watch as she makes her way to the dining table, and when I’m satisfied she won’t chase after us with a crutch and a knife the size of a machete, I refocus on Sloane. I help her drag some pillows under her left side so she can find a comfortable position on the overstuffed couch, but I know what it’s like to be so exhausted you’re desperate to rest, yet so in pain that it seems like a distant reality. When she seems as settled as she can manage, I kneel in front of her and sweep her raven locks back from her face.

“Drink?” I ask, and she nods, her eyes pinched with the pain that settles in as her adrenaline wanes. “What do you want?”

The space between her brows crinkles as her pretty hazel eyes hold mine, her pain tugging at my chest.

“I want…” She trails off as her eyes dart away and back again. Then her dimple pops out. That fucking thing is like a beacon of mischief. I barely manage to suppress a groan. “I want to know how the Shitflicker name came to be.”