“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.”
11
DISCORDIA
ROWAN
M y 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.