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Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby… Until you find yourself locked in a cage.
“I didn’t gouge them out, Butcher. I plucked them. Delicately. Like a lady.”
“Well, not the eating people part. I don’t know about that.”
“I’d rather watch you make skin ornaments and eye baubles than go to the kitchen and check on Lobotomy David. Let’s just go with that.”
She’s still reading the homemade label when she draws to a halt in front of me. “I might never look at ice cream the same way again.” “I don’t want to know.” “Ingredients: cream—” “Sloane—” “Sugar—” “I’m begging you,” I say, but as soon as ‘beg’ leaves my lips, Sloane’s grin ignites. My stomach flips in the most uncomfortable way. Sloane clears her throat. “‘Semen, milked April tenth to April thirteenth.’ That’s an interesting substitute to salt—”
“I was scared when we started, afraid that I was making a huge mistake. But finding someone who could understand me for all the shattered pieces beneath the mask? I needed that. Before you came along, something was missing. You, Rowan. You were missing. You made it safe to feel seen. Safe to play on our terms. Safe to have fun, even though our fun might not be everyone’s idea of a good time.”
“You fucking tell me, so that you know when I ruin you for all other men, it’s what you asked for.
“Pick a safe word. Do it now.” I swallow. Hard. “Chainsaw.” He huffs a laugh, a burst of warmth against my core. “How fitting, love. Now be a good girl and find something to grab on to…” he says, then passes one long, slow lick over my center. “...Because I’m about to destroy you.”
I’m the devil she never knew she needed.
By the end of this, you’ll scream. That’s a fucking promise.”
“Did I get the raven you left on the table tattooed on my back?” His smile is teasing, but there’s a hint of shyness in it as he finishes my thought. “Yeah. Appears to be the case.”
“Because I ‘like you’...?” Rowan cackles an incredulous laugh. “Like. You. Seriously…? Christ, Sloane. You are fucking brilliant but also the most willfully oblivious person I have ever met. Do you really think I just like you when I framed a drawing you left for me on a scrap of paper you tore from a notebook? The one I hung it in the kitchen so I can look at it every day and think of you? Do you think I just like you when I tattoo it on my skin? I play this fucking game every year and tear my heart out watching you walk away, only to do it all over again, and I like you? You think I just
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“I would kill for you, and I have. I would do it again, every damn day. I’d turn myself inside out for you. I would die for you. I don’t just like you, Sloane, and you fucking know it.”
“You might be psycho,” I say with a grin as her eyes narrow, “but you’re my psycho, and I’m yours. Got it?”
Maybe I was right. We’re not normal people. We are monsters. But if we’re monsters, we’ll thrive in the dark. Together.
