Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) by Stacey Rourke

couldn’t handle me, little girl.”
    The conviction he stated that with raised Ridley’s eyebrows. “Spent the last couple of weeks looking for her and she hits on another guy right in front of you. That’s gotta smart. Moments like this are exactly why I shy away from commitment.”
    “Boobs are why you shy away from commitment,” Noah corrected. “As for her, this little show is one hundred percent for my benefit. She’s afraid she’s going to hurt one or both of us, so she’s being an asshat to chase us away. Isn’t that right, Crane?”
    “Look at you two looking out for each other,” Ireland sneered in place of an answer. With all her might she pushed against Peyton’s influence, gaining no ground but successfully driving the nun to her knees with the strain of maintaining her hold. “I had so hoped your bromance would blossom into more. Tell me, who made the first move?”
    Ridley pondered that for all of five seconds. “Noah would have to, he’s way too rugged for my taste.”
    “Please don’t play along with the antagonizing ghoul.” Noah ran a hand over his face, his shoulders sagging with exasperation.
    “Not to be a burden, boys,” Sister Peyton grimaced, her hands beginning to shake as beads of sweat sprouted across her forehead, “but I’m not going to be able to hold her much longer. Saying fifteen minutes is being generous.”
    “And the second I’m free I’m going to scalp you and wear your flesh as my own habit,” Ireland stated with malicious delight.
    “Wha-what’s going on?” At the far-side of the ring, Ireland’s last flannel-clad victim shimmered into focus with Wells right beside him. Like the rest before him, his wounds and memories of the attack had been expunged from time.
    “What’s going on is that you’ve made poor choices in life,” Wells stated, condescension dripping from his tone as he urged the man in the direction of the street with a gentle shove. “I suggest you take this time to reevaluate and make changes.”
    The man started to trot off, only to hesitate when his gaze fell upon the fawn-colored pit hunkered under Regen’s ominous frame. “That’s … my dog.”
    The stallion’s ears flattened to his head, his thick neck arching in defiance.
    “I think you’re mistaken.” Wells crossed his arms over his chest, letting the snorting, heaving equine make his case for him.
    “Definitely mistaken,” the man muttered under his breath, scampering off in retreat.
    Turning on his heel, Wells’ air of satisfaction quickly morphed into frustration when he beheld the spectacle before him. “I asked you to stop her,” he directed at Peyton. “You seem to have taken the most literal interpretation of that possible.”
    While Peyton could only grunt a retort, Malachi cast a sideways glance of pure distaste in the older man’s direction. “She did the best she could without the benefit of your instruction or guidance.”
    Wells’ bushy, salt-and-pepper brows knit tight with surprise of such an openly argumentative tone. “Yes, well saving lives can be a bothersome, yet necessary, drain on one’s free time.” Shrugging off his over coat, he revealed a leather satchel strapped across his body. Rotating it over his thick potbelly, he flipped open the lid and dug inside. “It would be easy to blame the Horseman for Miss Crane’s current state. Unfortunately, that is not the case. What we see before us is Ireland Crane. Her own essence has been jaded and warped from being trapped for too long in her Hessian form. She is spiraling into that consuming darkness. If we don’t break her free, the monster within will consume her. I think I may be able to concoct a way to draw her out.”
    Ridley raised his hand as if waiting to be called on. “If I may?”
    “She doesn’t need science; she needs to accept Rip’s death and move past it,” Noah talked over him. His hazel glare locked on Ireland, driving the painful truth in deeper.
    Ireland convulsed,