ROWAN
The sharp edge of the mandolin lays against my inner forearm between the ropes that bind me to the chair. My palms face upward in curled fists, my short nails digging into my flesh as I brace against the pain I’ve already endured and that which is yet to come. Ragged breaths saw from my chest and I grit my teeth. I know what’s about to happen. Blood already pours from two other wounds, and he’s determined to get the perfect slice this time.
The blade catches in my skin and peels it from the flesh beneath.
I swallow a scream as David pushes down to resist my futile struggle and glides the mandolin toward my elbow until a thin strip of my skin is cut away. He tosses the bloodied tool onto the prep counter where it skids to a halt next to his gun.
Then he tears the flap of skin free from my arm with a merciless tug as the sound of my distressed cry fills the room.
“You know, I developed a taste for this at Thorsten’s,” David says as he leans close until he takes up all the space in my vision. He grips my hair with one hand and wrenches my head back to smile down at me. His once vacant eyes are not fucking vacant anymore. They are ravenous. And they’re pinned on me. “Did you develop a taste too?”
Blood drips across his fingers from the sliced skin pinched between them. I thrash in my chair but can’t escape his hold.
“Just a little nibble,” he says.
I press my lips tight. A choked growl of protest vibrates in my throat as he smears my bloody skin across my lips.
“No?”
His counterfeit pout turns into a reptilian grin.
David’s tongue slides out between his teeth and he lays the skin across it like a veil, holding it out for me to see. He closes his lips around it, lets it wiggle against his triumphant smile.
Then he sucks it into his mouth.
Eyes closed, his jaws work slowly, like he savors every bite as he rolls it between his teeth.
His audible swallow turns my stomach.
“Such a delicacy. So very rare.” He turns away to the table and drags a bottle of Pont Neuf across the stainless steel counter. “You know what else is rare?”
My answer is only ragged breaths.
“A woman like Sloane,” David says.
I’m going to be fucking sick.
I have never, never felt like this. Like there’s an empty pit in my stomach. Like I’m falling into it from the inside out. So helpless. So fucking desperate. That look in her eyes when I told her I didn’t love her, it haunts every breath I take. Those goddamn tears rip me apart.
“Not many people would do what she did for me,” David says as he spins the corkscrew into the bottle. It squeaks with every metronomic turn of his hand. “But then, that’s her way, isn’t it. Just like she protected that friend of hers, the Montague girl. So strange how that teacher just suddenly disappeared from their boarding school, don’t you think? People do have a funny way of conveniently disappearing around the Montagues.”
“Leave her alone,” I grit out.
“Though when I dug and dug and dug for answers, it seemed as though there were already rumors swirling about the things he did to the girls there. Terrible things. Depraved things. Deviant things. But at least he did one good thing—he made the Orb Weaver. A beautiful monster.”
The cork pops free of the bottle.
His voice drips with feigned innocence when David says, “Do you think she would want to do those deviant, depraved things with me?”
My vision reddens with rage as I thrash in the chair. “Leave her the fuck alone,” I snarl.
David sighs as he pours himself a glass of wine. “I don’t think she wants to either. But I’ll make her.”
I erupt within my restraints, unhinged. Wild. Insane.
But I go nowhere.
“Maybe I’ll take my time,” he continues as he unwinds the cork from the metal spiral. “Make her trust me. Maybe I’ll even make a miraculous semi-recovery. You know, not so much that I don’t still tug on her little black heartstrings, but just enough that she can convince herself into fucking a lobotomized man. Or maybe I’ve used up all my patience already. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, you know. Maybe I’ll just follow her all the way back to 154 Jasmine Street. I could break into her house and bring her a doggie bag. Feed her little pieces of you and then fuck her until I tear her apart, until she’s nothing more than another piece of bloody, pulverized meat destined for the trash.”
He saunters closer until he’s right in front of me, his gaze caught on his wine as he swirls it in the glass and then takes a sip.
“Either way,” he says as a smile sneaks across his lips, “the sound of her begging will be a beautiful symphony. A masterpiece.”
My throat clogs. My eyes fucking sting.
I know there’s no reasoning with him. There’s no bartering. I have nothing to offer. But I try anyway.
For her.
“Please, please, just leave her alone. If you want begging, I’ll fucking beg. If you want money you can have everything I own. If you want to cut me up into a thousand pieces, you can. Do whatever you want with me. Just please leave her be. Please.”
David leans closer. His eyes scour every inch of my face. “Why would I do that, when I can have you both?”
A flash of movement. Silver in the dim light.
Pain erupts in my wrist and agony spills from my lips. I look down to where the corkscrew is buried in my flesh, twitching with every beat of my heart.
“The Pont Neuf,” David says as he holds his glass beneath my bound arm. Blood trickles into the wine. “It’s nice, but a little bland for my taste. I like something full-bodied.”
He leaves the corkscrew in my arm as he takes a long sip. When David’s eyes fix to mine, they’re hazy, half-lidded. His slow smile is exultant.
“So much better,” he whispers, and swirls the wine and blood together before drinking more down. “That little tang of iron really adds another dimension to the mix. As insufferable as that pretentious old windbag was, I must admit—Thorsten really was on to something. And all this talking? Well…it’s made me hungry. I bet you’re famished too.”
David turns away toward the counter where the mandolin lays in a smear of blood on the stainless steel.
It’s Sloane’s face I see when I drop my chin to my chest and close my eyes. It’s her tears I feel when sweat slides down my face to drop on my lap. I think about how fucking beautiful she was when I told her I didn’t want her, her skin radiant with the pain of my words. I watched her heart shatter, and I twisted that knife for nothing. Because I’ll never be able to save her. Not from this. Not from him.
I can only hope that she disappears the way I know she can. They way she should have, from the first moment I let her out of that cage.
I’m thinking about that first day I met her in the bayou when I notice David go still in the periphery.
When I drag my gaze from my lap, he’s still standing at the table where the mandolin is, but his posture is different. Stiff. Tense. He pivots a slow turn with his back to me, his head angled at the length of the prep table to his left and then the counter on his right.
“Looking for something?” a voice says from the shadows.
Shock and confusion. Desperation and fear. It all crashes into my chest as Sloane steps into the light, David’s gun raised in her hand.
She’s so fucking beautiful. So brave. The gun doesn’t waver in her hand as she keeps it trained on him and walks forward to stop enough to the side that I can see her clearly. Her skin glows with a light sheen of sweat. Hazel eyes rimmed with black liner and thick lashes flick to me.
Her face is expressionless as she takes in my bloody arm and the corkscrew embedded in my wrist.
She looks to David. A slow smile creeps across her lips.
“Hello, David. I’m so happy we finally have a chance to talk,” she says.
And then she lowers the gun.
“I was wondering when you’d finally make your move.”
Her smile takes on a dark edge. A sharp edge. One that slips right between my ribs.
Sloane doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance in my direction. She keeps all her attention on David, warmth and wonder in her eyes, that fucking dimple a shadow next to her lips.
I want to rip his fucking skin off.
“I admire your work,” she says. “The South Bay Slasher. I assume you befriended Thorsten while you were in Torrance, am I right?”
David smirks before raising the glass to his lips and taking a long sip of wine, then he sets it on the counter next to the mandolin and crosses his arms. “So, you’ve been stalking me. Can’t say I’m entirely surprised.”
Sloane shrugs. “I like to know who’s out and about.”
“I know. I’ve been doing some stalking of my own. I’m aware of the caliber of prey you hunt. You’re here to kill me.”
“If I was,” she says as she raises the gun and examines the barrel, “I would have done it already.”
David lets his gaze travel the length of Sloane’s body. There’s a flash in his eyes, a flicker of all the things he wants to do to her, all his depraved desires. “I was watching your special little moment with this asshole a couple of hours ago, don’t forget. I know pain when I see it. You could say it’s my specialty.”
“And it was a very convincing performance, wasn’t it.” Sloane shrugs and keeps her finger on the trigger as she rests her elbow against her hip and points the gun toward the ceiling. “I’ve been watching you, too.”
“Little lies will catch you in a web, Orb Weaver. You should know that better than anyone,” David says through the dark, predatory smile that creeps across his lips. “I shut down the security cameras.”
Though David edges a little closer to her, Sloane remains relaxed. Nothing about her stance changes when she says, “Tsk, tsk, David. You must not have counted all the video feeds. That one there?” she says as she points the Glock to a camera in the corner of the room that’s aimed toward us, its red light still on. “That one is mine. I’ve been watching the whole time.”
David’s smile falls as he realizes she’s right.
Sloane’s smirk is triumphant as she gives him a wink. “Like I said. If I wanted to, I would.”
In a whip of movement, she aims the gun at David, the muzzle pointed at his forehead. He stiffens and drops his arms.
“Pow, pow, pow,” she says in a staccato rhythm. Her grin spreads before she lowers the weapon to her side. “Just kidding.”
I can only see David’s profile, but he can’t hide that gleam in his eye.
He’s fucking enraptured.
And Sloane eats it up, her face lighting in an indulgent smile. “Did you befriend Thorsten to find me?” she asks with a flirty tilt of her head.
“More like to defend myself. I had an idea you might come for me someday. I figured if I made friends with someone like us, I might have a buffer every August when people of our… nature… tend to wind up dead. Of course, Thorsten didn’t know he was being hunted, so I suggested I could pretend to be his fucked-up servant for the night while he scratched his itch with the serendipitous appearance of two seemingly perfect victims.” David takes a drink and studies her before he leans against the counter. “You know what they say: teamwork makes the dream work.”
Sloane beams. “Indeed. But sometimes it takes a while to find the right team.”
David tips his glass in her direction. “Very true.”
“Blackbird…” I say.
She sighs and pins me with a lightless glare. “Stop with the ‘Blackbird’ already.”
“Sloane, love, please—”
“Love?” Sloane’s head tilts. Her eyes are black in the dim light. “Love…? You really thought that’s what this was? You said it yourself—I’m a fucking psycho, remember? A monster. This isn’t love. It’s boredom. It’s competition. And by the looks of things,” she says as she lets her gaze travel from the corkscrew and down the steady drip that flows to the pool of blood on the floor, “I’ve already won.”
I shake my head. My voice is only a strangled whisper when I say, “He is going to do brutal things to you, Sloane.”
“Oh, you mean like maybe he’ll wax poetic while pounding balls-deep into my ass? Is that the kind of thing you’re thinking of?” Sloane rolls her eyes. “I think I’ve proven I can handle that.”
Every pain in my body is eclipsed by the one in my chest as my heart incinerates. She watches it happen, just the same as I did to her. But I don’t sense even the smallest shred of remorse or regret, only disgust in the way her lip curls before she looks away.
Sloane’s expression smooths as her eyes lift to David. “You know, I’m really in the mood to tear up the town, if you catch my drift,” she says to him with a wink.
His returning smile is ravenous.
I beg, but it’s like they can’t hear me. Thrash in my chair, but they don’t see.
Tears burn my eyes. I know what he’ll do to her, my beautiful Sloane. He’ll fucking destroy her. Strip bits of her off. Eat them in front of her, just like he’s done to me. And so many other horrible, hideous, fucking monstrous things that I can’t bear to imagine, but I imagine them anyway.
Even if he lets her walk out of this room alive, she’ll never survive the night.
“What do you have in mind?” David asks.
“How about we finish up here and go have some fun? I have some ideas. Maybe Kane Atelier would be a good place to start.”
Bile churns in my stomach as David grins and lifts his glass. “To a night out on the town.” He knocks back the rest of the bloodied wine and sets the empty glass on the prep table.
“Here, take this.” Sloane’s hand lifts as though it’s caught in slow motion, her palm open and the Glock resting on it like an offering. “I don’t really like guns.”
David’s eyes flash with anticipation as he reaches for the weapon, his gaze fixed on the deadly prize.
The moment his fingers graze the grip of the pistol, Sloane’s other arm moves in an upward slash. There’s a flash of silver, something hidden in her hand.
David recoils in reflex. Blood sprays across the Glock as it falls to the floor. He launches for her with his other hand, but Sloane is too fast. Her downward strike slices his other wrist. David roars in frustration, but the growl becomes a wail of pain as she kicks out his leg and sends him to his knees.
As he falls, her scalpel is waiting.
It slides into the notch in the hollow of his throat, the sharp edge pointed upward. David’s weight splits the flesh in two up the length of his throat as Sloane holds the blade steady between her hands.
It comes to a stop against the point of his chin, deep against the bone.
David coughs a gurgling, desperate breath through the gaping slit. A rush of blood sprays across Sloane’s face. She doesn’t blink as she lets her gaze travel over every detail of his pain and fury, her smile dark and triumphant as his dimming eyes glare back.
“I don’t really like guns,” she says and grips his hair in a tight fist. She pulls the blade free with her other hand. “Too loud. No finesse.”
She plunges the scalpel into his eye. David’s scream is nothing but a sputtering burst of crimson spray.
Then she lets him fall to the floor.
Blood spreads in a thick pool over the tiles. Sloane stands with her back to me as she watches David’s desperate movements slow and still, and even when they stop, she remains there, staring down at him as though she needs to be sure he won’t get up again.
“Are you okay?” she asks without turning around, her voice a quiet rasp.
I survey my bleeding arm where the skin has been flayed from the throbbing flesh beneath. My cheek and ribs pulse where I’ve taken his early blows. The corkscrew still ticks with the quickened beat of my heart, but it probably looks worse than it is.
“I wouldn’t mind getting out of this chair, but yeah. I’ll be fine.”
Sloane nods, then falls into silence, her gaze still pinned to the body on the floor.
“Sloane…”
She doesn’t move.
“Sloane, love—”
“No.”
“Um… Blackbird?”
Still nothing.
“…Peaches?”
Her head whips to the side and she pins me with a glare over her shoulder. But there are tears there too, streaking through the blood splashed across her cheeks. “I told you I’d cut you if you called me that again.”
“Blackbird it is.” I give her a weak smile. There’s worry in her eyes as she takes me in, but hurt too, and it fucking consumes my soul. “Love, I—”
“Shut up,” she snaps, and pulls her phone from her pocket. A heartbeat later, the sound of its ring precedes my brother’s voice.
“Well done. My friend Conor is right outside. Do you want him to come in?” Lachlan asks.
“No. Thanks for sending reinforcements though.”
“You okay?”
“Sure.” Sloane watches me over her shoulder. Tears still glass her eyes, even though the look she gives me is fucking lethal. “Your asshole brother needs…skin. I could use help with cleanup, too.”
Lachlan chuckles. “Fionn is already on his way. I know some people for cleanup—give me an hour for that. Conor will watch the door until they get there.” There’s a pause, and when Lachlan speaks again, his voice is soft and serious. “Thank you for looking after my brother, Sloane.”
“Log out of my video feed. I don’t want you to watch in case I change my mind and kill him myself.”
“Do me a favor and give him a big sloppy kiss instead,” Lachlan says.
She responds with an aggrieved grunt and disconnects the call before tossing the phone on the prep table with a clang.
She turns to me then, her eyes blazing and her arms crossed. “I’m counting this as a win.”
“That’s fair.”
“That’s three for me. Best of five.”
“Deserved. Totally.”
“And I’m still very angry with you.”
“I get it, love.”
“I want to stab you.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Please not my dick though. Or my balls. Or my pretty face.”
Sloane’s lips tremble. Her hard expression crumbles and recovers to a stoic mask, only to fall a second time. The red spatters and streaks on her face are so achingly beautiful, her tears so fucking agonizing. “You broke my heart.”
“I know, love. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You know I only did it to get you away from him, don’t you? I had to get you out of here or he was going to kill you.”
The tears in Sloane’s eyes shift and shine as they gather at her lash line. “I am not unloveable.” She jabs her bloody finger in my direction, punctuating every word. “I am very fucking loveable.”
I’m desperate to just touch her, even for a moment, as though seeing she’s okay is not enough. “Love… please… just let me out of this chair so we can talk properly.” Sloane’s forehead crinkles as she tries to hold on to her ferocity and fails, and when I give her a little smile, she can’t help herself—her gaze drops to my scar and lingers there. “Come on, Blackbird. Let me up so I can prove to you that I fucking love you to pieces. Maybe I’ll take that first aid kit by the door too if you don’t mind.”
Her ferocious glare returns.
“Or I’ll just bleed out on the floor, that’s cool… but getting out of the chair would still be aces. Preferably with no stabbing.”
After another long moment of hesitation, she approaches and starts working the knots free, first the ones that bind the chair to the support post of the counter and then those looped tight around my limbs. The last rope to fall to the floor is the one that straps my impaled wrist to the armrest.
I erupt from the chair the instant it’s gone.
Pain is dulled by need as I yank the implement free and grab Sloane as she backs away, crushing her to me in a desperate embrace. And I thank every god I never pray to when she wraps her arms around my body. She buries her face into my chest and dampens my shirt with all the fears she’s kept buried.
“I thought I was too late,” she says, over and over. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. It took me too long to figure out your clues.”
I take her face in my palms and stare down into her wide hazel eyes. An ache chokes up my throat as I savor this moment to just look at her, to feel her warmth against my skin. I came so close to losing everything. But she’s here, with her ginger scent and black eyeliner smeared in streaks down her skin, her freckles dotted with specks of blood. Creases line her forehead and her furrowed brow as her gaze bounds between mine.
She’s never been more beautiful.
“Not too late, Blackbird. Right on time.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t come. Her dimple is only a faint depression on her skin. And I know the lies I told her are the most dangerous kind, because I weaponized her real insecurities. Even if I only said them to save her, cuts like those still run deep and heal slowly.
I lower my head and hold her eyes, keeping her face steady between my palms. “You have never been unlovable. You were just waiting for someone who will love you for who you are, not for who they want you to be. I can do that, if you’ll let me.” I press my lips to hers and taste salt and blood, but pull away before the kiss deepens. “I fucking adore you, Sloane Sutherland. I wanted you from that first day at Briscoe’s. I have loved you for years. I’m not stopping. Not ever.”
Sloane’s gaze drops to my lips and remains there. She nods.
“You might be psycho,” I say with a grin as her eyes narrow, “but you’re my psycho, and I’m yours. Got it?”
When she lifts her eyes from my lips, she finally smiles. “You’re still kind of the worst.”
“And you still love me.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
Sloane rises on her tiptoes and folds her hands around my nape, drawing me closer until her forehead presses to mine, her breath a sweetly-scented caress on my lips.
“I really fucking do,” she whispers. “And you’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me, because I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neither am I, Sloane.”
When Sloane pulls my lips down to hers, I know it. I feel it in every beat that throbs in my raw, bleeding flesh. That the world could turn in every direction and shatter every reality, but there’s no other life than the one we choose to build.
