Page 15 of Bird on a Blade

I knew you were grateful for what I did for you.

“No!” I scream, and with a burst of strength, I erupt away from him. I spent years battling my survivor’s guilt. I starved myself because of it, punishing myself for being the only one left standing even though I was fat and ugly and unathletic and?—

The man grabs me again, quick as a cat, and yanks me up to him, pinning me to him, his mouth forming spots of warmth on my neck as he speaks.

“It’s me, Edie,” he whispers.

“H-how?” I sob. “Deputy Crozier fucking shot you! I was covered in your fucking blood! I picked your brain out of my fucking hair!”

The man sighs, nuzzles against me. “Good lord,” he murmurs, his hand drifting down over the swell of my belly. “That’s a pretty thought.”

Hearing that sends something jolting through me. I don’t know if it’s revulsion or desire.

But then his hand slides between my legs, his palm rubbing over the crotch of my jeans, and I have my answer.

It’s desire.

“To answer your question,” he says, his touch soft and almost hesitant. “I ain’t exactly human. I can’t die, like I said.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I whisper.

“Ridiculous or not, it’s true.”

He’s still touching my pussy, rubbing the heel of his hand against my clit, over my jeans. I know I should try to stop him.

But, to my shame, it feels good.

He guides me across the living room, still stroking my pussy. I go with him, not fighting, just stumbling backward with him, because it feels so fucking good, how he’s touching me, one hand on my cunt and the other squeezed around my bicep.

“Are you really Sawyer Caldwell?” The question comes out in a gasp. But I already know the answer, don’t I? There are two impossibilities here. I saw him die. And I told no one what he did in those moments before his death.

And yet here he is, the only other person who could know the truth.

There’s no denying what happened fifteen years ago. I’ll never forget what Sawyer Caldwell felt like as I clung to him. I’ll never forget what he said to me.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the man—as Sawyer—pulls me down onto the sofa, arranging me so that he pins me against him as his hand undoes the button on my jeans.

“Yes,” he mutters, finally answering the question. His voice is strained. Focused. “I dragged myself into the ground to heal.”

“No one heals from that,” I whisper.

“Hunters can. I can.”

He slides his hand into my jeans to stroke me over my panties. Why aren’t I stopping him?

Why am I listening to this?

Why do Ibelievehim?

Because no one could know what he did that night. NO ONE.

“Damn, Edie,” he says, snapping me back to the present. “You sure are wet for me, aren’t you?”

There’s genuine surprise in his voice, and hearing him say that, confirming it, makes me moan. He laughs like he’s delighted and then slides his finger under my panties, and I feel him for the first time, skin on skin.

It’s been so long since someone else has touched me that I can’t bear to push him away. Instead, I moan again, louder, as his fingers rub slow, lazy circles on my clit.

“I never thought I’d be so lucky,” he says softly. “That you’d be here. That I’d get to make you come.”

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