Page 49 of Butcher & Blackbird
My steps become wooden and small. The pieces I’d put together in my head are suddenly split apart and rearranged into another picture.I got it all wrong. It was just in my head.
I was wrong abouteverything.
Our steps slow and stop. Rowan pulls away and looks me over, excitement still radiant in his eyes. “I’ve got a great plan. He never stays late at these things. We can grab him and come back here without our absence being noticed. Perfect alibi.”
“I…um…” Thoughts die before they land on my tongue and I clear my throat to try again, hoping I can infuse my voice with strength that just won’t come. “I’m not really dressed for the occasion,” I hedge, looking down at the red velvet shimmering in the flash of lights.
“I’ll do all the messy stuff.”
It’s the first time that I can think of when I’ve not been excited at the prospect of killing another killer. It’s just not what I expected, I guess. Not where I wanted this evening to go.
“Hey, you okay?” Rowan asks. “I thought the color of your dress was an inside joke—you know, blood red and all—but I’ll make sure it doesn’t get damaged, of course.”
My heart is crinkling like paper crushed in a fist.
“But if you don’t want to…” he continues, his voice fading as worry and maybe disappointment weigh down every note. He seems to realize we haven’t been aligned at all when he says, “I thought when I said we could have some ‘real fun’ that you knew what I meant.”
“No, I actually didn’t get that. But I can see it now.”
The pause between us feels a thousand years long. Rowan’s thumb lifts my chin, my focus still trapped on my dress until I’m forced to meet his eyes.
Confusion is etched between his brows. His gaze scours my face—my flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, my lips that are set in a tense line.
“You…you didn’t know that’s what I meant?” he asks.
“Shockingly, ‘I want to have real fun’ doesn’t reliably transfer into ‘I want to murder someone together’, unless I missed something in Google Translate.”
“And you still came?”
I swallow and try to look away, but he won’t let me. He’s taking up all the space in every one of my senses, and no matter how much I want to be sucked into a void, Rowan anchors me right here.
Clarity and disbelief twine within his changing expression. He’s trying to put his own broken puzzle back together, a new picture emerging.
“Holy shit…” His whispered words are barely audible over the voices and music that surround us, but I feel them, as though they’re thorns embedded in my skin. His grip on my chin firms and he steps closer, looming over me, his eyes bouncing between mine. “Sloane,” he whispers. “You’re really here.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. But I don’t ask. Not as his gaze lingers on my lips when they part on a shaky exhalation. Not when his other hand slowly reaches up to sweep the waves from my shoulder, his fingertips an electric murmuration in my skin as they trace the slope of my neck.
He leans closer. His eyes don’t leave mine. His lips are just a thread of space away…
And then his phone rings with the sound of a siren.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his curse spilling across my lips. He draws away, the would-be kiss lost to another dimension, another Butcher and Blackbird who finally collide.
But in this realm, Rowan’s hand falls from my face as his eyes press closed. He withdraws the phone and accepts the call.
“What is it?” he says as he tries to hold his frustrated sigh back from the caller. “What do you mean ‘exploded’…? Jesus feckin’ Christ. Is everyone okay…?” Rowan runs a hand through his hair, the swept-back style now disheveled. His eyes land on me with dark and focused intensity. “I’m on my way. Comp whatever meals you have to.”
“That didn’t sound good,” I say with a bittersweet smile when he disconnects the call.
“I have to go.Right now. I’m sorry.”
“I can come and help—”
“No,” he says, his voice unexpectedly firm. His hand finds my arm and holds on, an apology for his sharp tone. “The stove in the pastry section just literally blew up. Thank fuck no one is injured. I don’t want you anywhere near that. I can’t, Sloane.”
I nod and try to smile. “I’m sorry your night took a turn.”
“Me too. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says with a deep crease between his brows as he shakes his head. “Stay and have fun. I’ll take an Uber to the restaurant and text you the driver’s details so you can take our ride back to your hotel when you’re ready.”
