Page 7 of Bird on a Blade

It’s a relief when I get to the bookstore, the storefront window painted in pretty, swirling font:Sweet Tidings Bookshop. It’s not just a bookstore; it’s a bakery, too, with a big cartoon cupcake emblazoned across the glass.

My chest tightens, seeing that. But only a little.

I duck inside, bell chiming overhead. The cashier looks up and smiles; she looks like a college student, oversized glasses and a streak of pink in her hair. “Welcome to Sweet Tidings!” she calls out by rote. I smile at her as I move deeper into the store. It’s split in half; books on one side, cupcakes on the other. I can smell them, the butter and sugar, and it makes the back of my jaw ache even as my chest squeezes tighter. A cold, raspy voice in the back of my head calculates calories and carbs, and I think of Charlotte and the weekly milk tea dates we started a year ago, and all the progress I’ve made.

I’m two years into recovery. I will not be frightened by a cupcake.

Still, I stick to the bookstore side, at least at first. Hardly anyone’s in here. An old grey-haired woman browses through the romance section. The door chimes, and a man about my age comes in and immediately starts flipping through the latest #1 bestseller. He’s the sort of man I remember always seeing in Altarida when I was younger: thin but wiry, a tangle of tousled dark hair, faint stubble across his jawline. He looks like he works with his hands for a living, which I’ll admit appeals to me, after Scott and his lush corner office and his artificially-crafted muscles.

The man glances up at me and I jerk my gaze away, cheeks blooming. Had I seriously been staring at him like a schoolgirl with a crush? I’m not even in the headspace to deal with men right now.

Embarrassed, I duck out of the bookstore portion and into the bakery. The lights are brighter here, like I’m stepping onto a stage. The bakery shelves are lined with decadent, frothy cupcakes that hardly look like food. There are two men in here, too, standing with their arms crossed as the girl behind the counter drops cupcakes into a white box.

I walk up to the counter and study the cupcakes on display.Monthly Special!reads a delicate hand-painted sign.Sweet Apple Cardamom with House-Made Carmel Syrup!The cupcake itself looks like a dream, like the golden sunlight that cracks across a late autumn afternoon. I desperately want to buy one, but the voice is still there in my head:You can’t eat that, you disgusting fatty, what’s wrong with you? We’re talking 1500 calories minimum. You should be sticking to 500 calories for a single DAY I mean look at you, you disgusting fucking pig. Look how fucking fat you’ve gotten. Look how?—

A snicker echoes across the bakery. I freeze up, glancing over at the men, who are smirking at me. There’s a mirror behind them and I see myself, four sizes bigger than I’d been at the height of my anorexia and still a monstrous size 8.

One of the men snickers again, mutters something to his friend. Both of them keep looking at me.

I swear I hear the wordhuge.

I whirl around, my face burning. Bestseller Guy is a few paces behind me, and he jerks his gaze away too, like he’s in on the joke. I feel like a fool for finding him attractive, for findinganyman attractive. And suddenly I’m a teenager again, lying exhausted on my belly in the middle of a muddy patch at Head Start, sobbing while Blake or Michelle or one of the other asshole counselors screams at me to get up and fuckingmove.

I bolt out of the bookstore, grateful I’m wearing sunglasses so no one in this shitty town can see the tears streaming down my cheeks.

CHAPTER FOUR

SAWYER

My body courses with electricity, every nerve firing at once. I want to kill so bad it feels like a physical ache. There are six humans in this store (five humans andher) and I can sense every single one of their heartbeats, pounding arrhythmically in my head.

I never should have come into town.

But I couldn’t stop myself. Because Edie’s here. Because when she stepped out of the woods, I didn’t want to let her go. I wanted to keep stalking my perfect prey.

Now I’m surrounded by actual prey, and I’m losing my fucking mind.

She buzzes around the books, eyes glancing furtively around behind her sunglasses. I pretend to read the book I’m holding, but really I’m trying to cut through the rackety noise of human heartbeats to follow her—her scent and her body’s lovely symphony, pulsing blood and soft panty breaths and a kind of quiet rushing sound like the lake lapping against its stone shore.

But it’s like listening to music when you’re driving down the highway with the window rolled down. The other humans are too fucking loud. Especially the two men in the bakery, talking toeach other about some girl they both want to rail. Their laughter scrapes against my skin. Their idiotic chatter makes me want to stalk in there, grab them both by the back of their necks, and slam their heads against the pristine glass displays until everything, the cupcakes and the girl behind the counter and the glossy white tiles, are covered in blood.

But then I feel her, my perfect prey. She’s watching me from behind her oversized sunglasses, and for a moment, I almost feel calm.

Then I look at her. I can’t help it. I want to see her seeing me.

She startles, jerks her gaze away. I like it, that flush of panic. It gives my cock a little rise in my jeans.

Not as much of a rise as killing those two idiots in the bakery would, though.

She ducks away, slipping toward the cupcakes. I watch her over the edge of the book, considering what to do next. It was stupid of me to come into town, but I got rewarded for it with a glance from her, even though I wasn’t able to see those pretty dark eyes.

One of which is nearly swollen shut.

My anger surges again. My bloodlust. I drift closer to the bakery, closer to my perfect prey but also the two idiots, snickering and joking with each other. I imagine that the man who hurt her was like one of those assholes, smirking and smug. Someone too stupid to see the treasure in front of him.

The lights are brighter in the bakery, which I don’t like. It makes it feel harder to hide. My perfect prey is looking at the display, and for a moment, I let myself admire her, the lush swell of her hips, her strong shoulders. There is a semi-circle of unbruised skin at the base of her neck, beneath the place she’s swept her black hair up into a knot and above the neckline of her thin shirt.

I want to sink my teeth into it and taste her blood.

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