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“Now we’ve got you buried in a burrow. I’d say your stock has plummeted dramatically.”
That earns me a soft chuckle.
I spend a moment looking at his face. From several meters away, in the gentle amber of the lantern light, his dark brows, wide cheekbones, and princely lips stand out the most. I run my gaze down his lovely form and then back up, and I wonder what his loved ones would think if they knew where he was tonight. What sort of people love him? Likely many…
“I suppose you’re not so awful.” The quiet words are blurted, but I can see them reach his ears. His mouth opens, and he gives a chuckle. “It’s true,” I continue. “I’d have never given you a chance prior to this…entrapment. But perhaps I do believe you weren’t yourself that night.”
He pushes up off the floor and gets to his feet, surprising me anew with his height as he strides toward me. He stops beside me, and for a breathless moment, I can feel his gaze caressing me despite my own eyes clinging to my feet. “Glad you’re seeing reason now.”
I hear the grin in his voice. I don’t dare peek at his face until he bends to scoop my rock off the floor. His muscular back ripples as he bashes it against the wall. “So—we bros?”
I fold my aching arms, trying to stifle a smile. “I’m no one’s bro.”
“Buds?”
I snort. “I’ll agree to be your friend. A proper friend and confidant, for the duration of our time here in the burrow.”
He knocks my shoulder gently the next time he stops his swinging to get a gulp of water. A strange warmth spreads through me. For the first time, I feel grateful for his company.
* * *
Declan
Two days in, and I’m starting to learn her siren ways. I’m pretty fucking sure she’s shy—or at least reserved. She doesn’t like me zeroing in on her too much or asking her too many questions. I can get her talking if I don’t seem over-interested. If I grin at her or nudge her arm with mine, woman’s like a hermit crab. Goes right into her shell.
“You’re pretty funny, you know that?”
We’re sitting on what’s left of the old rubble pile, and Finley’s pulling a square of Atkins bar into a bunch of little pieces, having just insisted “it tastes different this way.”
When I give her a smile, she draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arm around them, one hand cupping the remnants of her bar, her damp hair curling over one shoulder.
“I’m not wrong. It does taste different with the insides pulled out.” She pops a little piece into her mouth. “If nothing else, the texture’s different.”
“I guess so.” I have the last bite of my own bar, which is sitting heavy in my stomach.
“You know you can eat more than me, right?” she asks. “You’re what, twice as large as I am? I can go without a bit if need be. I doubt you can.”
I make a cringy face, and Finley shakes her head. “Samesies.”
That makes me laugh. “Pray tell me, where’d you come across ‘samesies?’”
She shrugs, looking shy again. “One of my friends says it.”
“Which one?” I drink some of my water, trying to ignore the churning in my stomach.
“Oh, you know. Anna.” She rolls her eyes.
“Hey, now, let a guy make small talk.”
“Anna is my dearest friend. She’s married to Freddy, and they have a wee one, Kayti.”
I smile when she says “wee one,” and she shoots me a dark glare. “Let’s avoid critiquing your American-isms, shall we?”
I stand up, stretching my sore-as-fuck back before bending down to grab the hammer. “Tell me what slang is gettin’ your goat.”
I hear her laughter behind me. For someone so prone to bossiness, she’s got a nice, soft laugh that’s what I think one might call a giggle.
“Gettin’ your goat? Are you sure you aren’t from Mississippi?”
