“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.”

His hand folds over the back of my neck and he presses a kiss to my forehead. The touch echoes long after his lips are gone.

My chest aches when he takes a step backward and lets his hand fall to his side. Rowan’s smile is faint, his brow furrowed. “Bye, Blackbird.”

“Bye, Butcher.”

I watch as he backs away, nearly bumping into couples on the dance floor, his eyes fused to mine until he forces himself to turn. And still I watch, my feet rooted to the floor and my hands clasped together, a statue among the lights and movement that swirl around me.

Just as he reaches the doors, Rowan turns. His eyes find mine. I give him a fleeting smile. He runs a hand down his face and a fierce, determined expression is left in its wake. He takes two steps in my direction but halts abruptly, his shoulders falling as he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. With a final, defeated glance in my direction, he accepts another call and turns on his heel to stride away.

Five minutes later, a text buzzes on my phone with the contact details for the driver.

I leave as soon as it comes.

When I get back to the hotel, I run through my nightly routine and slide between the crisp linens, falling asleep almost instantly, as though my head and heart have run a marathon. I’m up just before my alarm, checked out within forty-five minutes of waking, heading on the covered walkway between the Hilton hotel and Logan airport when my phone chimes in my hand.

I miss you already.

Emotion clogs my throat. I stare at the screen for a long moment before I tap out a reply.

I miss you too.

Are we still on for August? No pressure if you can’t, truly. I know you have a lot going on.

I fully expect he can’t make it. Who would? With a new restaurant under construction and a popular one that appears to be falling apart at the seams, it would be reasonable to expect he would want a year reprieve. Would I be devastated? Sure. But would I understand? Of course.

Blackbird…

The dots of his incoming reply keep me motionless on the walkway.

I will blow this restaurant up myself before I miss it. I’ll see you in August.

And change your oil, you bloody heathen!

I pocket my phone and swallow the burn creeping down my throat, and then I keep going, ready to plow through these next few months. Maybe ready to try again.

What if I just try again?

What if I do.

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13

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HUMANITY ERODED

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SLOANE FOUR MONTHS LATER…

“Damn. Am I too late? Did you win?”

Rowan shoots a fleeting glance my way as I approach on the worn path, dust coating my sneakers in a roan-colored film. His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt straining against his taut biceps. There’s a flash of trepidation in his eyes, their scrutiny cataloging the details of my face before he turns his attention back across whatever lies beyond the rolling hills of prairie grass.

“Nope. Didn’t win.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to psych myself up.”

My head tilts with a question, but Rowan doesn’t look at me. I follow his line of sight when I stop at his side.

“Whoa… That’s just… Yikes.”

I take in the dilapidated two-story Texas farmhouse set beyond the gentle rise of the hills, letting my gaze roam the battered and bleached wood of the siding, the shattered and boarded windows on the second floor. A hole on the right side of the roof gapes at the sky like a screaming maw calling to the thunderstorm that darkens the horizon. There’s an assortment of junk on the covered patio—broken chairs and boxes, diesel cans and tools, the items strewn on either side of a clear path leading to the screened front door.