Page 42 of Bird on a Blade

“O-okay,” she says slowly. “The heat—the heat will be nice.”

I smile at her, trying to make this feel the way I’d always imagined it. And to my surprise, she smiles back. It’s small and it’s scared, but it’s there.

“Come on,” I tell her, and I wait for her to get out of the pew. As soon as her back’s to me, I pull the finger out and open up thephone for her, then tap her on the shoulder so I can hand it to her. She blinks down at it.

“Don’t let it lock,” I say. “Unless?—”

“Right,” she says quickly. “The, uh, the finger.”

I nod.

We go into the kitchen together and Edie sits down at the table, still shivering beneath her blanket. She swipes through the phone, her brow furrowed, her worry lifting off her. I duck into my room and dig out some clothes—fresh jeans and flannel for me, sweatpants and a sweatshirt for her. When I come back into the kitchen, she looks up at me. Does she look… relieved?

“He hasn’t sent anything to Scott,” she says, setting the phone down on the table. “About where I am, I mean. But it looks like he had a partner. They knew he was here.”

“Don’t worry about that.” I put the sweatshirt and sweatpants on the table, and Edie just stares down at them. “For you,” I say, worried it’s not clear.

Edie looks at them, looks up at me. She seems hesitant, and I don’t know why. “Thank you,” she finally says. “I’ll—I’ll wait here while you—” She swallows. “While you clean up.”

I study her for a second longer, the way she looks sitting in my kitchen, wrapped in my bed’s blanket. My cock throbs a little. I’ll need to take care of it in the shower so I don’t do something I regret.

I gather my change of clothes up to my chest. I keep thinking about what her blood will look like against her pale skin, but I don’t want to end her forever.

I hate it, this push-pull. These warring desires.

I leave her in the kitchen.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EDIE

He’s absolutely drenched in blood. When he found me stretched out on the pew, doomscrolling through social media while I avoided Charlotte’s texts, my first thought was that he was injured and I needed to drive him to the hospital.

And then my brain caught up to me. Because it’s not his blood.

He doesn’t seem bothered by the blood, though. Not as he hands me Baro’s phone or brings me a change of clothes. I keep staring at him, thinking back to that night at Camp Head Start. Because that was the last time I saw so much blood in one place, and it hadn’t belonged to Sawyer Caldwell, either.

He gives me a short nod before he steps out of the kitchen to go to the shower, his footsteps drowned out by the rain thundering against the roof. I shiver, hating the feeling of the cold, clammy fabric against my skin, but I’m afraid to change into the sweatpants and sweatshirt he brought me. The ED voice is hissing in my head, telling me that it will be humiliating to try and put them on. Sawyer is a slight man, slighter than you wouldexpect for someone who has killed, at least as far as I know, six people. Almost certainly more.

One hejustkilled. For me.

To protect me.

The thought makes me dizzy, and that makes the ED voice louder. It’s as cold and vicious as it’s ever been.You lost control, it says.You lost control and look what happened. And you think you’ll even be able to pull those fucking sweatpants up around your thighs?

I brace myself against the table and breathe in and count to four. Breath out. Count to four. I try not to think about Sawyer covered in someone else’s blood. Sawyer asking me if I’m cold. Sawyer bringing me his spare clothes.

The shower turns on, the water rushing on the other side of the kitchen wall.

I stare at the sweatshirt and sweatpants. Maybe it’s better to just wear my wet jeans and T-shirt while I wait for my sweater to dry out. I left it draped along the back of one of the pews.

The water gurgles through the pipes, reminding me that Sawyer is on the other side of the wall. Covered in blood. Naked.

My face heats. I shove away from the table and pace around the kitchen, pulling the blanket—hisblanket—tight around my shoulders. He protected me. He protected me at Camp Head Start, in a fucked-up sort of way. Every single one of those counselors tortured me. There’s no other word for it. They denied me food and water. Screamed abuse at me. Forced me to the brink of heat exhaustion. They only relented in their cruelty when he started to kill them, picking them off one by one.

Shameful heat blooms between my thighs.

I stop just at the entrance of the hallway, squeezing the blanket tight in my fist. The storm rages outside, the lashing rain pummeling the roof. The cacophony of it matches the cacophony in my thoughts, frantic and thrashing. I’m eighteen and I’m staring down at Michelle Evans’ body, her blood soaking into the dirt outside the cabin. I’m hiding in a closet, my breath tight andterrified. I’m telling Blake Foster I left my phone in the dining hall after dinner and maybe it’s still there and I can call for help and he scoffs and says no.Are you kidding, Edie? Look at you. We both know you can’t fucking run. I’ll go.