Page 29 of Bird on a Blade

I look at Sawyer, and he’s dead serious.

“Yeah, ex-husband. My ex-husband is Scott Henser.”

Sawyer shakes his head, goes to carve out another slice of cake. “If I’m supposed to recognize that name, I don’t.”

“He’s a venture capitalist.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that is, either.”

I smother a smile. “He’s just—a rich asshole who gives money to tech companies. Anyway, he’s famous, sort of. In certain circles. And he’s very image-conscious.”

Sawyer licks the cake away from his knife again, the moment showy, his eyes boring into me. We’re both thinking the same thing. And it’s not about Scott.

Still, I swallow. “I was never really his type,” I say. “Even with the anorexia. I was a little too big for his liking. But my family—they’re old money, and he wanted that prestige. Me going into recovery was just a step too far.”

Sawyer slices another piece of cake and holds the knife lightly between his fingers, watching me. “That’s why he hurt you?”

“No,” I say. “He did it because he found out I was going to leave him. He wants me sick. I want to be well. But for me to initiate—” I keep staring at the cupcake. I haven’t really talked aboutthiswith anyone, except Charlotte, and even she only knows the broad strokes. Scott launching himself at me, squeezing his hands around my throat.You don’t get to fucking leave,he kept screaming over and over.I leave you, you fat fucking bitch. Not the other way around.

Then me kneeing him in the balls, wrenching myself away, grabbing my phone and running barefoot out of the house and calling 911 all at once. That humiliated him too, I’m sure. And I’m sure he paid good money to keep it covered up, the cops rolling up to the big beachside mansion on a domestic dispute call. But I was long gone by then. In clothes I borrowed from Charlotte, the two of us plotting my escape as we drove to San Francisco.

“It embarrassed him,” I finally say, “and he tried to kill me.”

Rage flashes in Sawyer’s expression. It’s the only word for it. A black, unrelenting rage that’s like a tornado tearing across his face Then it’s gone.

“You don’t have to worry about anyone killing you,” he says. “Not anymore.”

His words shouldn’t bring me comfort, but they do.He’s not going to have to kill anyone for me, I think, trying to reassure myself.Because no one will find me here.

Sawyer’s still staring at me. “T-thank you,” I say softly, because I know I should say something.

“You should try this.” He holds up the knife still bearing the cupcake slice. “Don’t have to eat the whole thing. Just try it.”

Then he walks around the counter, coming face to face with me, the knife hovering between us. I gaze down at it, breathe in the scent of butter and sugar and cinnamon. I don’t want the stupid cupcake as much as I want to be able to eat a cupcake and not feel like an abomination.

“Go on,” he says, more softly. “It’s good.”

I look up at him, and I think of all the times I refused to eat something in front of Scott or his friends, who had become my friends by default when we married. How virtuous I felt, dressed in designer clothes, sure, but in sizes at the top of the range. Every butter-drenched appetizer or sugary macaron or slice of crusty French bread was a whispered threat that my entire life teetered on the edge of a blade. And I’d shove things aside, and people would praise me andthen gossip behind closed doors that Ihadto be a binge-eater, didn’t I? Because no one eats that little and stays that big.

“Eat it.”

Sawyer’s voice is sharp and commanding. It reminds me of how he spoke to me when his hand was between my legs, ordering me to have another orgasm.

Ordering me to experience pleasure.

“Off the knife?” I say.

He smiles, a slow creeping killer’s smile, and nods.

Why does my breath catch at that?

He steps closer, lifts the knife to my lips. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, although not much: a flash of my brown eyes, a curl of my black hair.

“Lick it,” he purrs, and my face heats as I imagine licking something else, something as long and hard as that knife. I lean forward, cautious, and dip my tongue into the frosting.

Flavor explodes on my tongue, an overwhelming sweetness redolent with cinnamon and cardamom. Pumpkin spice. I curl my tongue to draw the frosting into my mouth, and Sawyer watches me the whole time, his eyes burning. He holds the knife steady. It doesn’t wobble at all.

Which is good, because its sharp edge is dangerously close to my throat.

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