The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

17

"When we were younger," she murmured a few moments later, blurting out the first thing that came to mind as she smoothed her right hand across Declan's chest, smiling when his muscles flexed and twitched beneath her palm, "say maybe as long as six years ago—when Dorsey would get on my nerves somethin' fierce—I'd sneak on up to his bedroom and sew all the traps in his long johns shut."

"He do anything in retaliation?" Declan grinned.

Wren giggled and nodded, "He over-starched my petticoats at least twice 'fore I wised up to it. Then I started sewin' the legs of his long johns shut and removed all the buttons—"

"You wicked woman," Declan quietly interrupted with a roguish grin.

"It gave him somethin' new to complain about," Wren winked, then continued, "'course then he started bedevilin' me on my cookin' days—"

"Of course," Declan murmured, turning on his side to stare at Wren with a warmth in his brilliant blue depths that caused heady sensations to coalesce in the pit of her stomach and spread through her limbs like some greedy, insatiable tentacled beast.

Licking her lips and attempting to remember her train of thought, Wren cleared her throat before softly stammering, "I-I once returned from fetchin' somethin' in my room—can't recall what it was now—and caught him red-handed addin' a whole cup of salt to my cake batter—"

"What a jackass," Declan whispered with a crooked grin as he reached out a trembling hand and tucked a lock of hair behind her right ear.

"Yes, he was," Wren smiled, leaning into Declan's touch when he tenderly cradled her face. "But I loved him just the same."

They lay there in the quiet for several minutes, just looking, listening to one another breathing, wondering what the other was thinking with enough space between them on the mattress to fit another person save for where their hands met and interlinked across the gap in the middle.

"What about you and Wooly?" Wren whispered, breaking the silence.

Declan blinked, and his gaze turned guarded. "What about us?"

Unsure what she'd said to ruin the mood again, Wren strove to keep her tone playful as she smiled and quietly asked, "What sort of mischief did you and your brother get up to?"

Depriving her of his touch, he released her hand and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling as he murmured, "I used to leave rotten and bloated animals—small ones—in his bed... sometimes dead fish... he'd do it right back so it became a sort of game to see where we could hide them before Mama found it and made us bury the thing."

Wren swallowed, her lips curling in disgust even as a ripple of laughter escaped her throat. "That's awful. Oh, your poor mama—what else?"

"What else?" Declan said, turning to stare at her with a brow raised in surprise. "That's not enough mischief for you?"

Wren shook her head.

"We used to slap each other in the arms to see who would quit or bruise first."

"I don't know if that's ridiculous or the most clever idea I've ever heard of to keep boys busy," Wren giggled. "Whose idea was it?"

"Depends on if you decide it's ridiculous or clever," Declan smiled. "If it's clever, I'm claiming credit."

"What's the absolute worst thing you two ever did to each other?" She whispered with a grin, her mind filling with cherished memories of her and Dorsey's prankish escapades that made it a wonder they'd survived to adulthood and didn't burn the house down around them on more than one occasion.