Rowan’s head tilts in the other direction, his brow still furrowed but a hint of a grin playing at his lips. He subtly points at me, and then at himself. ‘You love me?’ he mouths.

I smack my head.

“Everything all right, my darling?” Thorsten asks as David departs for the kitchen.

“Oh yes, of course. I just remembered something I forgot to do at work before I left. But it’s fine, I’ll do it in the morning.” Thorsten smiles at my excuse, but it’s brittle around the edges, uncertainty bleeding into his mask. “Late morning at this rate. This wine is going down a treat,” I tack on with a charming smile. He watches as I bring the glass to my lips and swallow, though I don’t let any of the liquid into my mouth. The deception seems to appease him and I set my glass down, folding my hands in my lap.

Thorsten’s restraint buckles as the approaching trolley squeaks in the hallway, a beaming, ravenous grin claiming his features as his refined mask peels away. But Rowan doesn’t notice. He just smiles at me, swaying slightly in his chair, a glassy sheen coating his half-lidded eyes.

“You look so pretty, Blackbird,” he says as David enters the room with three covered dishes on the trolley.

Blush flames in my cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You always look pretty. When you came to the restaurant, I said—” Rowan hiccups twice, then drowns the next one with a gulp of wine, “I said, ‘Sloane is the most beautiful girl in the world’. And then my brother called me a ‘feckin eejit’ because I could have all the pussy I wanted in Boston but instead I’ve taken a vow of obstinence—”

“Abstinence.”

“—abstinence over a girl who doesn’t want me.”

I’m pretty sure the blush has set fire to my skin and the source of the flame is my incinerated heart.

Thorsten grins in my periphery, clearly entertained by our dinner conversation. My lips part, a held breath burning in my chest. All I manage to say is a single word: “Rowan…”

But his attention has dropped to the dish set before him.

“Beef Niçoise,” Rowan chimes with a delighted smile as he takes up his knife and fork. I glance at Thorsten who watches Rowan with rapt attention. “I love Beef Niçoise.”

“Yes,” our host says as he lays a folded piece of paper-thin rare meat on his tongue. “Niçoise.”

“Rowan—”

“I’m so curious to know your thoughts, chef,” Thorsten barrels on. “This is my special take on the traditional version.”

“Rowan—” I hiss, but it’s too late. Rowan’s already scooped a forkful of salad into his mouth, his eyes closing as he savors the chopped lettuce and green beans and cherry tomatoes and…beef.

“This is fantastic,” he says, slurring his words. He spears another forkful of salad with an unsteady hand and jams it into his already-full mouth. “Homemade dijon dressing?”

Thorsten beams under the compliment. “Yes—I used an extra half-teaspoon of brown sugar as the meat is gamey.”

“So good.”

I swipe a hand down my face as Rowan manages to shovel one more bite into his mouth before he passes out face-down on his plate.

There’s a beat of silence. Thorsten and I stare at the man sleeping on a bed of salad with thinly-sliced rare human steak hanging out of his mouth.

When Thorsten meets my eyes, it’s as though he’s coming out of a euphoric haze.

He thought I was drinking my wine. When I wasn’t drunk enough, he probably thought he could easily subdue me.

He thought wrong.

I hold Thorsten’s confused gaze as I push the stem of my wine glass over, toppling it onto my plate. The crystal shatters, chipping the china, flooding the salad with blood-colored wine.

“Well,” I say, as I sit back in my chair, laying my hand on the surface of the table with the watered steel blade clutched in my palm. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

OceanofPDF.com

11

OceanofPDF.com

DISCORDIA

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ROWAN

My first conscious thought is a single word, one that slurs past my lips like it’s stuck in viscous syrup.

“Sloane.”

My second thought is the awareness of the steady beat of music. At first, I was convinced it was my heartbeat, but I was wrong. A man’s angelic voice floats above light drums and a dreamy guitar melody that reminds me of the desert at sunset.

Sloane hums along with the music that swirls around me. As she sings along about cooking someone and squashing his head, I realize I recognize the melody. Knives Out. Radiohead. Sloane’s raspy, rich voice fills my chest with relief. I know she’s okay, thank fuck. Because I am not okay.

Screams fill the room and I open my eyes. A vaguely familiar candelabra comes into view, laden with gaudy crystals. I try to focus on them as the rest of the table swirls at the edges of my vision.

“Just…hold…still…” Sloane says, gritting out every word over the man’s garbled cries. “I’d say it would hurt less if you stop struggling, but that’s a total lie.”

The man screams again and I turn my head toward the sound. It might be the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. My head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

The screeching reaches a fevered pitch. Sloane’s back is to me. She’s straddling the terrified man seated in the chair at the head of the table, shielding him from view. Some of the evening comes swimming through the soup of wine and sedatives clouding my thoughts. Thorsten. The man is Thorsten. And he fucked me up.

“Just a little snip. There you go.”

The screaming stops abruptly and Sloane’s shoulders sag with disappointment.

“Wuss.”

She reaches behind her without turning around, her gloved fist covered with blood, and drops a severed eyeball next to another already resting on the bread plate next to my head.

I retch.

Sloane whips around at the sound. “In the bowl, Rowan. Jesus Christ.” She tears her gloves off as she climbs off the man and hauls my torso upright so I can vomit into a stainless steel bowl next to my face. Her hands hold tight to my shoulders as red wine and dinner vacate my stomach. “Better out than in. Trust me,” she grumbles, her tone dark.

“Fucker drugged me,” I manage to grit out when the heaving finally stops and I wipe my mouth with a napkin, my hand clammy and shaking.

“Sure did.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“A couple of hours,” she replies. She passes me an unopened bottle of water with one hand, drags the bowl away with the other. Sloane looks toward the door to the hallway, hesitating. “I need to ditch this but David is freaking me the fuck out.”

“Has he threatened you? If he’s fucking threatened you, I swear to God—”

“No, not at all,” Sloane says, pushing me back down on the chair when I try to stand. My body pitches to one side. She tries to smile, I think, but it comes out like a grimace. “He seems pretty harmless.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He’s eating. In the kitchen,” she says. I shake my head, not following what she’s laying down. “The next courses. The…food.”

“That’s what most people eat. Food.”

The color has drained from Sloane’s face. “Yeah… most…”

“I don’t get it—”

“You ate a fucking person,” she blurts out.

I blink at Sloane once before pulling the bowl back to heave again.

“Oh my God, Rowan, it was really gross. You stuffed it in. Couldn’t get enough.”

I retch.

“You passed out while chewing. I had to scrape it off your tongue so you wouldn’t choke.”

I glare at her through watery eyes before vomiting again, though thankfully there’s not much left to get rid of.