“Give me a break.” He stops sweeping. “I saw the way Dad caught you ogling my cousin. He’s probably sleeping with his rifle tucked in his arms.”
“I wasn’t ogling.” I hope the flour caked on my face is thick enough to hide the heat growing in my cheeks. “I had flour in my eyes. I could barely see.”
“Sure.” Rex’s eyes flick to the main house before locking back on me. “Remember, my dad likes you, but he definitely likes Cybil more.”
I keep cleaning, wasting time I don’t have.
Rex isn’t wrong—Buddy’s always had a soft spot for his niece. Once my feelings for her started to shift into something real, I was careful. Cautious. Never crossed a line.
But now? With Rook and Ramirez closing in, I can’t afford caution. I need to know what she knows—where she stands in all this—so I can figure out how to keep her safe.
I glance toward the main house. The kitchen light flicks off.
The probability Buddy has his rifle within arm’s reach is high. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Cybil safe—even from me. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t shoot me...
Still, if I’m going to talk to Cybil, for my safety, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 33
Cybil
Cypress Creek, Texas
Sunday morning
There’s a terrifying moment, maybe a second or two, when you realize you’re being watched. The fight, flight, or freeze instinct kicks in, and as I lie in bed, eyes still closed, every nerve in my body snaps to attention.
If I fight, there’ll be blood. If I run, I might not make it. If I freeze... well, that rarely ends well.
A weight shifts beside me on the bed, and a whisper of movement tells me I’m not alone. My heart pounds. I was supposed to be safe here.
I crack one eye open.
Beak. Feathers. Murderous eyes.
Kentucky Fried.
My aunt and uncle’s devil rooster with the personality of Jack the Ripper.
How is he still alive?
I inhale a sharp breath as the oversized ball of feathers pecks at a loose thread on the bedspread like it’s plotting my slow demise. The window’s open—of course it is—and with it comes the scent of honeysuckle and betrayal. Kentucky Fried didn’t just waltz in. He had help.
And if I make it out alive, I’m going to kill them.
Keeping the covers tight around me, I wiggle my foot under the blanket just enough to nudge Kentucky Fried. He growls. Actually growls. I didn’t even know roosters could do that.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
With a battle cry worthy of a horror movie heroine, I fling the covers over the rooster’s head and leap out of bed. My foot catches in the sheet, and I crash to the floor in a tangle of cotton and panic. I scramble for the door, arms flailing, just as Kentucky Fried explodes from the bedding like a heat-seeking missile. I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, chest heaving.
On the other side of the door there’s scratching. Claws. A low, judgmental cluck.
Kentucky Fried survives another day.
Ben and Rex? Maybe not.
As I pound down the stairs two at a time, the memories of the pranks Ben and Rex played on me every summer come roaring back. But using the feathered, demented freak of nature named Kentucky Fried was extra low.
