Page 92 of Butcher & Blackbird
“Blackbird…” I say.
She sighs and pins me with a lightless glare. “Stop with the ‘Blackbird’ already.”
“Sloane, love,please—”
“Love?” Sloane’s head tilts. Her eyes are black in the dim light. “Love…? You really thought that’s what this was? You said it yourself—I’m a fucking psycho, remember? A monster. This isn’t love. It’s boredom. It’s competition. And by the looks of things,” she says as she lets her gaze travel from the corkscrew and down the steady drip that flows to the pool of blood on the floor, “I’ve already won.”
I shake my head. My voice is only a strangled whisper when I say, “He is going to do brutal things to you, Sloane.”
“Oh, you mean like maybe he’ll wax poetic while pounding balls-deep into my ass? Is that the kind of thing you’re thinking of?” Sloane rolls her eyes. “I think I’ve proven I can handle that.”
Every pain in my body is eclipsed by the one in my chest as my heart incinerates. She watches it happen, just the same as I did to her. But I don’t sense even the smallest shred of remorse or regret, only disgust in the way her lip curls before she looks away.
Sloane’s expression smooths as her eyes lift to David. “You know, I’m really in the mood to tear up the town, if you catch my drift,” she says to him with a wink.
His returning smile is ravenous.
I beg, but it’s like they can’t hear me. Thrash in my chair, but they don’t see.
Tears burn my eyes. I know what he’ll do to her, my beautiful Sloane. He’ll fucking destroy her. Strip bits of her off. Eat them in front of her, just like he’s done to me. And so many other horrible, hideous, fucking monstrous things that I can’t bear to imagine, but I imagine them anyway.
Even if he lets her walk out of this room alive, she’ll never survive the night.
“What do you have in mind?” David asks.
“How about we finish up here and go have some fun? I have some ideas. Maybe Kane Atelier would be a good place to start.”
Bile churns in my stomach as David grins and lifts his glass. “To a night out on the town.” He knocks back the rest of the bloodied wine and sets the empty glass on the prep table.
“Here, take this.” Sloane’s hand lifts as though it’s caught in slow motion, her palm open and the Glock resting on it like an offering. “I don’t really like guns.”
David’s eyes flash with anticipation as he reaches for the weapon, his gaze fixed on the deadly prize.
The moment his fingers graze the grip of the pistol, Sloane’s other arm moves in an upward slash. There’s a flash of silver, something hidden in her hand.
David recoils in reflex. Blood sprays across the Glock as it falls to the floor. He launches for her with his other hand, but Sloane is too fast. Her downward strike slices his other wrist. David roars in frustration, but the growl becomes a wail of pain as she kicks out his leg and sends him to his knees.
As he falls, her scalpel is waiting.
It slides into the notch in the hollow of his throat, the sharp edge pointed upward. David’s weight splits the flesh in two up the length of his throat as Sloane holds the blade steady between her hands.
It comes to a stop against the point of his chin, deep against the bone.
David coughs a gurgling, desperate breath through the gaping slit. A rush of blood sprays across Sloane’s face. She doesn’t blink as she lets her gaze travel over every detail of his pain and fury, her smile dark and triumphant as his dimming eyes glare back.
“I don’t really like guns,” she says and grips his hair in a tight fist. She pulls the blade free with her other hand. “Too loud. No finesse.”
She plunges the scalpel into his eye. David’s scream is nothing but a sputtering burst of crimson spray.
Then she lets him fall to the floor.
Blood spreads in a thick pool over the tiles. Sloane stands with her back to me as she watches David’s desperate movements slow and still, and even when they stop, she remains there, staring down at him as though she needs to be sure he won’t get up again.
“Are you okay?” she asks without turning around, her voice a quiet rasp.
I survey my bleeding arm where the skin has been flayed from the throbbing flesh beneath. My cheek and ribs pulse where I’ve taken his early blows. The corkscrew still ticks with the quickened beat of my heart, but it probably looks worse than it is.
“I wouldn’t mind getting out of this chair, but yeah. I’ll be fine.”
