Page 8 of Claiming Sarah

I pivot to the kitchen island behind me, a corpse resting on the slab, unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling. My eyes follow his, not seeing what he sees, obviously. Death is such a curious thing, a gripping fascination I can’t shake. I swipe a knife from the counter, brushing aside the escaped larvae.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve been so busy prepping for my guest I’ve skipped dinner. I grab a fistful of worms, popping them into my mouth, enjoying the juicy squelch they make with each bite, closing the distance between me and another ingredient for Dr. Bell.

My hand pulls up the dead man’s shirt, pausing when I swear his mouth moves. My hands jerk back when his neck turns, sightless eyes narrowing on me. Pressing my hands into my eyes, I whisper, “Not real. Not real. Not real.”

“She’ll escape, you know. What will you do when she finds out what you did?” the dead man asks. What the hell was his name? The one before Dr. Moore, the one briskly walking toward my raven, coffee cup in hand each morning. I didn’t take him for information about Dr. Bell. No, rage and jealousy churned in my veins at witnessing his “accidental” brushes against my raven.

Mine?

“Ours,” the voices murmur in unison, drowning out the dead man. My hands fall away, chest heaving, and I see the corpse is just a corpse, face aimed at the ceiling. Good.

“If she escapes, I’ll put her downstairs. But you can’t have her, not in life and most certainly not in death,” I say, hand swiping a knife off the counter behind me. I point it at Dr. Anders—that was his name.

“She’s mine. And you’ll feed her,” I growl, stalking forward with purpose, resuming the task of exposing his stomach.

A cow liver can deliver as much as twenty-one grams of protein. A human one has to be superior, and Dr. Bell needs her strength. Two scoops of protein powder add forty grams to her dinner. The beetle larvae adds another twenty-one. At eighty grams of protein, I’ve provided her with half her daily intake in one serving.

“Yes, feed the raven.”

“Worms for the bird. Bird. Bird. Bird.”

Blood pools around the blade, serrated edges dragging the skin down, exposing viscous fat. My knife makes a return trip, cutting through fat and viscera, blood spilling out the sides of my incisions. It’s not surgical grade, but the patient offers zero complaints. I shake the sensation loose ofhis eyes watching me. Maybe I should’ve plucked them out.

His pale organs gleam at me. I shove eager hands inside the hole of the dead man’s stomach, fingers trailing over familiar landmarks until I reach my prize, the human liver. One hand pulls free with a sucking sound, retrieving the blade and sawing through the attached blood vessels and intestines until the liver slips free of its tethers, landing in the abdomen’s corner.

“Please don’t do this man,” Dr. Anders pleads, a tear leaking from his white eyes. I ignore him.

Leaving the knife inside the cavern of the corpse, I lift out the liver. Without flashing teeth, my lips lift into a small smile, the corners stopping at my cheekbones.

“She’ll hate you!” Dr. Anders screams at me, hands coming to cup the open hole in his abdomen. Jerky, pale hands begin yanking out more organs, throwing them carelessly to the floor, all the while staring at me accusingly.

With one finger, I point at him, clutching the liver in my other hand. “Stay fucking dead. Leave Sarah to me. My raven!” I yell at him. Turning away, I rush to drop the freshly harvested liver into the blender. My eyes dance around and, not finding anything suitable to add nutritional value, I place the lid on top, pressingpuree.

A whispered “Fuck you” from Dr. Anders gets drowned out by the machine. Shaking my head, I walk to the sink, rinsing my hands. She won’t miss him, anyway. She’ll thank me. I’m providing for her. That’s right, provider. Leaning my weight on the counter, I take calming breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow.

I have a guest to feed.

SARAH

I wake with a jolt, a scream teasing the tip of my tongue. Realization dawns, eyes roaming over the masked man near the door. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, a golden snake wrapped around his shoulders and neck, its coiled tail ending at the waistband of black pants.

Licking dry lips, I come to the startling conclusion that he drugged me. That’s the only explanation for why I was awake one minute, plotting my escape, and unconscious in the next.

I didn’t wake when he opened the door, assuming his perch or when he—my eyes land on the table that definitelywasn’tthere earlier—dragged the table in. Shadows cling to him, aided by his all black clothing. He tilts his head, assessing me as I assess him, appearing completely unbothered by the serpent constantly shifting across his torso.

I’ve been at the bedside of a known serial killer before. I didn’t show fear then and I won’t show it now. Even if the snake wrapped around him is potentially venomous.

“Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?” I snap, trying to control my breathing.

One hand—a spiderweb tattooed on the back—dips into a pocket, pulling out a black device similar to a recorder. A slender finger presses a button before he speaks. A voice changer, I realize, before his voice fills the room.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Bell. I have food prepared for you and it is in your best interest to consume every. Last. Drop.” His boot covered feet take a step with each word as his free hand motions to a shaker bottle near my unshackled one.

Fear skitters down my spine as I wrap my fingers around the innocuous bottle. Drugged. Chained. And who knows what else he has planned?

“Please,” I beg, switching gears.Maybe I should play on being a woman? I can do that, right?After all, if he’s Z, thenon some level he’s attracted to me, returning my kiss at the bar.

“Mister, you have the wrong woman. I’m a mother and I?—”

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