Butcher & Blackbird (The Ruinous Love Trilogy #1)

by Brynne Weaver

Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby … Until you find yourself locked in a cage. For three days. With a dead body. In the Louisiana summer. With no air conditioning.

“I renounce my wicked ways,” I say after the song disintegrates among the dust motes and the hum of opalescent insect wings. “That’s a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways.” I startle at the sound of a man’s deep, smooth voice, the cadence of a faint Irish accent warming every note.

“You might know me as the Boston Butcher.” I shake my head. “The Massacre of Mass …?” I shake my head again. “The Ghost of the East Coast …?” I sigh. I’ve totally heard of all those names, even though I’m not telling him that.

“Wait! Wait. Please.” I clamor to my feet to grip the cold bars just as he reaches the threshold. “Sloane. My name is Sloane. The Orb Weaver.”

“Oh my God. I knew it. I fucking knew they had it wrong. It had to be a woman. The Orb Weaver! Such a cool name. The intricate fishing line, the fucking eyeballs. Amazing. I’m such a huge fan.”

“They’re making decent progress, the little orzos,” Rowan says, more to himself than to me as his gaze remains trapped on the trail of tiny white worms heading my way. When his eyes lift from the floor, they meet mine with an eager smile. “Want to get lunch?”

The Orb Weaver. I’m sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver. And she’s fucking beautiful.

When the woman departs, Sloane snickers, that dimple deepening. “Don’t tell me you get that so often that it doesn’t even register in your brain. That’s just depressing.” “Get what …?” Sloane’s gaze darts to the server and I follow her line of sight to the woman who tosses a smile to our table over her shoulder. “Oh my God, it really doesn’t register. Like, at all.”

“Why him, though? We’re a little far from Boston. I’m sure there are plenty of lowlife drug dealers for entertainment up there that you don’t need to come this far for one guy.” A weighted silence thickens the air, both of us paused with ribs heading toward our mouths. A sly smile spreads across my lips as Sloane’s face falls. “You totally know who I am.” “Oh my God.” “You do. You know what I like to hunt on my home turf. How long have you been a fan?” “Dear Christ, stop.”

“You are a cheat.” “Am not.” “You’ve been following me around relentlessly to figure out who we’re after rather than looking on your own.” “It’s not in the rule book that I can’t.”

“That’s a pretty dress. Someone help pick that out for you? Whoever they are, they clearly have impeccable taste.” “Great taste. Absolutely zero boundaries.” He grins. “I’m so happy we’re on the same page.”

We give one another a pointed look as Thorsten laughs. “Seems like you might have differing opinions on the subject of your relationship status.” “Well, it’s hard to compete with the stunning waitstaff and Rowan’s adoring socialite regulars,” I say with a sickly sweet smile. “No one competes with Sloane.” Rowan’s eyes anchor on mine, dragging me into the depths of a navy sea. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”

“You always look pretty. When you came to the restaurant, I said—” Rowan hiccups twice, then drowns the next one with a gulp of wine—“I said, ‘Sloane is the most beautiful girl in the world.’ And then my brother called me a ‘feckin eejit’ because I could have all the pussy I wanted in Boston but instead I’ve taken a vow of obstinance—” “Abstinence.” “—abstinence over a girl who doesn’t want me.”

“I love beef Niçoise.” “Yes,” our host says as he lays a folded piece of paper-thin rare meat on his tongue. “Niçoise.” “Rowan—” “I’m so curious to know your thoughts, Chef,” Thorsten barrels on. “This is my special take on the traditional version.” “Rowan—” I hiss, but it’s too late.

there is the accidental cannibalism

“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—”