There’s a long pause, the silence between us punctuated by the hum of insect wings.

“No. I don’t.”

Rowan waves a hand. “Irish saying, meaning he was up to mischief. But it was a pretty clever joke, given the circumstances,” he says, his chest puffed with pride as he hooks a thumb toward the corpse. “Begs the question, though—how’d you wind up in the cage while he’s dead with your blade out there? Did you knife him through the bars?”

I glance down at my formerly white shirt and the dirty boot print that hides beneath the splash of blood. “I guess you could say it was a moment of bad timing.”

“Hmm,” Rowan says with a sage nod. “I might have had one or two of those myself in the past.”

“You mean you’ve been locked in a cage with a dead body and a little infantry of orzo pastas marching your way?”

Rowan looks down across the space around us and frowns. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

“Didn’t think so,” I mutter with a weary sigh. I dust off my hands on my grimy denim shorts and take a final step back as I cock a hip. I’m starting to become annoyed at this interloper who seems to be doing nothing more than delaying my slow death by starvation. I’m pretty sure he’s a bit nuts and I don’t get the impression he’s that keen on actually letting me out of here.

Might as well just get on with it.

“Well…?”

“They’re making decent progress, the little orzos,” Rowan says, more to himself than to me as his gaze remains trapped on the trail of tiny white worms heading my way. When his eyes lift from the floor, they meet mine with an eager smile. “Want to get lunch?”

I level this stranger with a flat glare as I motion to my bloody, boot-printed shirt. “Unless you want to send us both to jail immediately…no…?”

“Right,” he says with a frown before striding toward Albert’s corpse. He rifles through the pockets, coming up empty. When he looks up to the bloated neck, he lets out a little sound of triumph, pulling my blade free before he yanks on a silver chain, the links snapping with the swift assault of his strong grip. He turns his smile toward me as he rises, his fingers unfurling around the key that rests in his palm.

“Have a shower. I’ll find you some clothes. Then we’ll burn the house down.”

Rowan unlocks the door and extends a hand into the shadows of my cage.

“Come on, Blackbird. I’m in the mood for barbecue. What do you say?”

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2

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FUN AND GAMES

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ROWAN

The Orb Weaver.

I’m sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver.

And she’s fucking beautiful.

Raven hair. Warm hazel eyes. A spread of freckles over her cheeks and a little nose that’s turned a bit red. She clears her throat and takes a long sip of her beer and then frowns, her eyes trained on her glass as she pushes it away.

“You’re sick,” I say.

Sloane’s eyes meet mine with a wary glance before her attention shifts to the diner. Her sharp gaze lands on one table of patrons for only a moment before it floats to the next. Sloane is a nervous one.

Probably justified, all things considered.

“Three days in that hell-hole was bound to take a toll. Thank fuck I had water in there.” She reaches for the napkin dispenser and pulls a tissue free to blow her nose. Her gaze finds mine again but doesn’t stay on me for long. “Thanks for letting me out.”

I shrug and sip my beer, and I watch in silence as her gaze flicks away to a server who exits the kitchen with another table’s order. Sloane asked for a booth midway down the window, pointing to the exact one she wanted when the hostess led us into the room. Now I get why. It’s equidistant between the front entrance, the emergency exit by the bathrooms, and the kitchen.

Is she always this flighty, or has her time in Albert’s cage got her spooked? Or is it me?

She’s wise to be wary.

My eyes stay fixed to her, and I take the opportunity to openly assess my dining companion as she surveys the restaurant. Sloane twists her damp hair over her shoulder and my gaze drifts down to her chest, like it has every two minutes since she walked out of Albert Briscoe’s bathroom with a Pink Floyd T-shirt and no bra.

No bra.

The thought echoes through my brain like church bells on a bright Sunday morning.

Her body is curvy and strong, working some kind of witchcraft on her stolen clothes that should look anything but sexy given they came from Briscoe’s closet. She even makes his jeans look good, the hems of the long legs rolled to her ankles and the baggy waist cinched with two red handkerchiefs tied together to form a makeshift belt. She knotted the bottom of the T-shirt so it nips in at her waist, showing a sliver of tempting skin and her pierced belly button when she leans back against the booth with an exhausted sigh.

No bra.

I need to get my shit together. She’s the Orb Weaver, for Christsakes. If she catches me ogling, she could pop my eyeballs out of my head and string me up in fishing line before I say the words ‘no bra’.

Sloane rolls a shoulder, doing little to help my mission to give up my no bra mantra. Her fingers find the joint as a little wince of pain creases her features. She frowns when her eyes meet mine.

“He kicked me,” she explains, her touch lingering on the top of her shoulder with her answer to my unvoiced question. “My shoulder hit the edge of the cage when I fell in.”

My hands fold into tight fists beneath the table as white-hot rage burns in my veins. “Fucker.”

“Well, I did stab him in the neck, so I guess it was justified.” Sloane’s palm slips down her arm and she sniffles, her nose crinkling. Fucking adorable. “He managed to close me in before he fell. He even laughed.”

The server approaches with two plates of ribs and one of fries, earning a ravenous glance from Sloane. When the plate is set down in front of her she smiles, a little dimple popping out next to her lip.

We thank the server who lingers for a moment in the periphery before Sloane pipes up with confirmation that we have everything we need. When the woman departs, Sloane snickers, that dimple deepening. “Don’t tell me you get that so often that it doesn’t even register in your brain. That’s just depressing.”

“Get what…?”

Sloane’s gaze darts to the server and I follow her line of sight to the woman who tosses a smile to our table over her shoulder. “Oh my God, it really doesn’t register. Like, at all.” Sloane shakes her head and tears a rib free of the steaming rack on her plate. “Well, be prepared, pretty boy. My stomach has been eating nearby organs for the last three days and I’m going to devour these fucking ribs in the most unladylike fashion possible.”

I say nothing, riveted to the sight of her perfect teeth as she tears into the steaming flesh that slides off the gray bone. A drop of barbecue sauce gathers at the corner of her lips and her tongue darts out to claim it, and I want to fucking die.

“So…” I clear my throat in the hopes my voice won’t crack. Sloane’s brow furrows as she sinks another bite into the meat. “How come not Blackbird?”

“Huh?” She slips the end of the rib into her mouth and sucks the meat right off the bone to pull it past her lips with sauce-stained fingers. My cock strains against my zipper just watching her cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that fucking mouth. 

I take a sip of beer and look down at my plate. “Your name,” I reply before starting on a rib, purely to distract certain body parts that are becoming pretty insistent about what they want. “How come you didn’t pick a name with Blackbird? Raven hair, flighty nature, the song…I’m going to hazard a guess it’s from your childhood, right? I heard you singing it back in the cage.”