Page 168 of Deviant

That’s all that matters—Rowen surviving this.

“Now, what do I do?” she whispers after returning to me, needing my guidance to finish the job.

Just as she showed Abigail a way to complete her task, so will I help her with hers.

“Sit on my lap.”

“What?” Her eyes widen. “I’m not going to sit on your lap, Elias. Not in front of everyone, and certainly not here. This is not the time nor the place for your mercurial mind games,” she explains, insulted I would ask for such a thing.

But I’m not asking. I’m telling. No. I’m motherfucking ordering her to.

“Sit… on… my… lap,” I say through gritted teeth.

Rowen might be proud… she might even like to defy me once in a while, just to see how far she can take it… but she knows me well enough not to provoke me when I’m teetering on the edge of my sanity.

She takes a fortifying breath and sits down on my lap, still holding the hunting knife in her hand.

“You’re about to cut a piece of me off. I would think you’d be more pleased,” I tease while snaking a hand around her waist to cage her in.

“By the way you’ve been avoiding me these last few days, acting like I don’t even exist to you, maybe what I should cut out is your black heart from your chest.”

“Maybe you should,” I retort, breathing in her scent to simmer down the heart that always beats a little faster whenever she’s near.

“Don’t tease me. And don’t patronize me. Just show me what to do,” she says more confidently.

“You weren’t so eager to cut me a minute ago.”

“You hadn’t pissed me off yet.”

I let out a chuckle, surprising everyone in the room, including her.

“Does nothing faze you? I’m about to use this horrific-looking knife to cut you, and you look… you look—”

Happy?

The word is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare finish her sentence with it.

Even I’m still unclear why I’m only truly happy when I have Rowen in my arms. And right now is not the time to dissect why that is either.

“How about we put a pin on this conversation for later and tend to this first?”

She offers me a clipped nod in agreement. And like me, she proceeds to block out the entire room, preparing herself to do what needs to be done.

“Hold the knife tightly. For all intents and purposes, it needs to look like you’re the one doing the carving,” I say, wrapping my arm around hers and taking hold of her wrist. “Do you have a good grip on the handle?” I ask, moving her hand up and down gently by her wrist to gauge how easily I can guide her movements.

“I do,” she promises after realizing what my plan is.

“Good. Now look at me.”

She does as she’s told, and even though she’s pissed, when our eyes meet, she all but melts into me.

“Good girl.”

And before she knows what is happening, I guide her hand by the wrist to slice into my forearm to quickly cut out a piece of flesh.

“Holy shit!” I hear Andy holler as the dead flesh falls to the floor.

But I don’t look at him because all I see is her.

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