Page 54 of Butcher & Blackbird
I’m not sure if that gives her any reassurance or closure. Maybe one day it will, but right now her loss is too fresh and the wound too deep. Her quiet sobs continue as I turn my attention to the screen when a text message comes in.
Sloane
SLOANE
ANSWER ME
WHERE ARE YOU?!
The dots of another incoming message start flashing as I type out a reply.
I’m okay. Locked in cellar. Right side of house.
Rowan’s reply is immediate.
Hold tight, love. I’m coming.
I read his message twice before I lock the screen and bite down on my lip. My nose stings. An ache burns in my chest. Maybe it’s just an Irish expression, but I still hear it over and over in Rowan’s voice, as though he’s right here in my head.
Hold tight, love.
“What’s your name?” I rasp out as I turn my attention to the crying woman who huddles against the brick wall. She’s about my age, slim, covered in streaks of dirt across her naked frame.
“I-I’m Autumn.”
“Okay, Autumn.” I set the phone down so the flashlight shines toward the ceiling and start unbuttoning my shirt. “I’m going to give this to you but I need your help to get it off.”
Autumn hesitates for a moment before approaching with tentative steps. We don’t talk as she helps guide the fabric over my dislocated shoulder, and though she backs away momentarily when I let out a cry of pain, she perseveres to free the shirt from my body. The fabric is soaked and muddy, and it might not keep her warm in the cool cellar, but at least she’ll be covered.
She’s just doing up the last button when an ax splits through the cellar doors.
“Sloane,” Rowan’s desperate voice yells, carrying above Autumn’s terrified scream and the wind and the driving rain. “Sloane!”
A raw ache grips my throat. My eyes fill with tears as I grab my phone and scramble closer to the doors. “I’m here, Rowan—”
“Stand back.” With a few more hits, the doors splinter and fall into the dark with the lock and chain. Rowan’s hand appears in the dim light.
“Take my hand, love.”
There must have been stairs in here once, but they’ve been removed, and I have to jump to grab Rowan’s palm, slipping on the first attempt with the rain and sweat on our skin. He repositions himself to lay on his belly, leaning further into the darkness.
“Both hands,” he demands, offering his palms to me.
“I can’t.”
A flash of lightning illuminates Rowan’s face, searing it into my memory forever. His lips are parted and I can almost hear the sharp intake of breath as his gaze snares on my misshapen shoulder and missing shirt. His features are anguish and fury painted in light and rain. Beautiful and haunting and terrifying.
Rowan doesn’t say anything as he reaches for me. When I jump, he catches my hand and grips it tight, hauling me up enough to grasp my elbow and pull me from the cellar.
As soon as I’m on the ground, I’m crushed in his embrace, trembling in his arms. I fist his soaked shirt. His scent envelops me and I want to hold on in this moment of comfort, but he forces us apart to look into my eyes.
“Can you run?” he asks, surveying my face. His eyes never settle as I nod, roaming my expression as though hunting for the truth. “You trust me?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice breathy but sure.
“I’m going to keep you safe. Understand?”
“Yes, Rowan.”
