“Did he just have a heart attack?” Rowan asks. He stops by Harvey’s unmoving head to stare down at his bloodied face.

My shoulders fall with disappointment. “This is so uncool, Harvey.”

“You literally scared him to death. You should be proud.”

“I had so much more in me.” I give Mama Mead a petulant shove and she rolls off Harvey’s unmoving chest. “Do you think we should give him CPR?”

“If you want to, but I call dibs on not doing mouth-to-mouth.”

“...Dammit.”

Rowan grins when I look up. He walks around Harvey’s head, stopping beside me with his hand outstretched. “Come on, Blackbird. The adrenaline’s going to wear off soon and that shoulder will really start aching then. We’d better burn the place down and get going before that bird finds her way to help. Then I’ll get our things sorted at the motel and we’ll be on the road.”

I place my hand in Rowan’s and he pulls me to my feet. The scar through his lip lightens a shade as he smiles down at me. My gaze travels over his face, and I want to remember every detail, from his dark brows to his navy eyes and the faint lines at their edges, to the tiny mole on his cheekbone and the shine on his wet hair. Most of all, I want to remember the warmth in his kiss when he presses his lips to mine.

All too soon, he’s pulling away, but not without taking my hand as he leads us toward the house.

“On the road,” I say, his words finally surfacing from the haze of adrenaline. “On the road to where?”

“Nebraska. To see Dr. Fionn Kane,” he says. “My brother.”

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15

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IMPRINTS

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ROWAN

Sloane sleeps next to me in the passenger seat, a blanket I stole from the hotel covering her body, her black hair swept over her swollen shoulder. Her bra strap holds an ice pack in place over the joint, and though I know it probably melted an hour ago, I haven’t had the heart to replace it in case I wake her.

When I look at her, I can’t seem to pry one emotion away from the others. They all intertwine when I think of Sloane Sutherland. Fear is fused with hope. Care with control, with envy, with sadness. It’s fucking everything, all at once. Even the desire to turn this feeling off locks with the need to nurture it. The totality of it devours me.

And it only grows with every passing moment. Sloane bleeds into every thought. When we’re apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her. Killing bound us together, and it’s a compulsion neither of us can live without. This need, and now this game between us, consumes me as much as she does.

My obsessions push me to a cliff I’m bound to fall over, and there might not be an end to the drop once I do.

Sloane stirs and groans, and my fucking heart starts rioting. Maybe it hasn’t stopped since that first day in the bayou when she walked out of that bathroom at Briscoe’s, all wet hair and flushed, freckled skin and that Pink Floyd T-shirt tied at her waist. Every time I think of her, my heart reminds me I’m not as dead on the inside as I thought after all.

“Easy, Blackbird,” I say as she groans again, more of a whimper this time that claws at my guts. I lay a hand on Sloane’s thigh, maybe to reassure myself as much as her. “Just a few more hours.”

She shifts, every painful movement etching a crease on her skin until her eyes are squeezed shut. The blanket falls down to her waist when she finally makes it to a straighter position but she doesn’t seem to notice, and when I pull it back up for her she gifts me with a faint, grateful smile. I pass her a bottle of water and a handful of pain meds before she has the chance to ask for them.

“I feel like hell,” she says, her eyes drifting closed once more as she swallows the pills. When I only respond with a thoughtful hmm, she gives me a sidelong glance. “You can say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I look like hell too.”

I chuckle and her eyes narrow. “I’m not saying that. No fucking way.” I look back to the road, saluting a magpie that flies overhead, trying to keep my attention on the horizon even though the weight of Sloane’s piercing stare on the side of my face is like a hot brand on my skin. “What? I think you’re beautiful. Like some kind of vicious, battle-hardened goddess of vengeance.”

Sloane snorts. “Goddess of vengeance my ass.” I glance over in time to catch one of her epic eye rolls. Before I can stop her, she’s got the visor pulled down and flips up the cover for the mirror.

A shriek fills the little hatchback.

“Rowan—”

“It’s not that bad, once you get used to it.”

“Get used to it? There’s a fucking boot print on my face.” She leans closer to the tiny mirror, turning her head side to side as she inspects the bruises of distinct tread marks on her forehead and two black semi-circles beneath her lower lashes. When Sloane turns to me, her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“Blackb—”

“Don’t you Blackbird me. That can-can motherfucker stamped my fucking forehead. I can even see the Carhartt logo on it,” she says, her voice taking on a watery quality as she draws closer to the mirror before turning back to me, a tear spilling over her lashes as she leans over the center console and points to the circle in the center of her forehead. “See? Right there. Carhartt. Why couldn’t he have just punched me in the face like a normal person?”

“Probably because he wasn’t a normal person, love. I thought the chainsaw was a big clue.” I wipe one of her tears away with my thumb. Her lip wobbles and I want to simultaneously laugh and burn the world until I find a way to resurrect that arsehole so she can kill him again. “It won’t be there forever.”

“But I have to go to the bathroom,” Sloane says, managing to wrestle her voice under control even though her face is still the picture of distress. “How am I supposed to go anywhere without drawing attention to myself?”

I don’t dare offer the option of finding a private bush on the side of the road to squat behind. She’s clearly reached a limit to her stress and I’m not keen on being stabbed while driving.

“There’s a rest stop in ten miles. I’ll sort you out.”

Sloane watches me for a long moment, and though her expression is still weary and pained, it softens just a little before she settles back into her seat. “Okay.”

My chest aches. She trusts me.

I swallow, dragging my attention back to the road. “Okay.”

Silence descends as Sloane gnaws on her lower lip, watching out the window as farm fields slip past. I turn up the music now that she’s awake in the hope it might calm her when I sense the tension rolling from her motionless frame. Sometimes, it feels like having a wild thing in my grasp when she’s with me. She’s just like her nickname, ready to take off with the first gust of wind. I’ve never wanted to earn trust before Sloane. I’ve never cared about keeping it on a personal level, not for anyone but my brothers. And suddenly, Sloane’s trust is one of the most important things in the world to me. I know if I lose it, I’ll never get it back.

And that scares the shit out of me.

“What if I need surgery?” Sloane whispers. I offer her a smile, but it doesn’t seem to reassure her.

“Then you’ll have surgery.”

“People will ask questions.”

“My brother will take care of that. But we don’t even know if it’s necessary. Let’s see what Fionn says when he takes a look.”

Sloane sighs, and I lay my hand back on the blanket covering her thigh, unsure if this is too much when I don’t know where we stand. But her good hand slips into mine, and my heart jumps into my throat with a heavy beat.