Butcher & Blackbird by Brynne Weaver

Author:Brynne Weaver [Weaver, Brynne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adult, Contemporary, Crime, Dark Romance, Humour, Romance, Serial Killers, Thriller, Friends to Lovers
ISBN: 9798857497074
Amazon: B0CFRG4535
Goodreads: 196915235
Publisher: Independently published
Published: 2023-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

14

SHATTERED

SLOANE

Water pelts my throbbing face. Nausea swirls in my stomach. Blood coats my tongue. The world spins around me. Rolling. I’m rolling down a steep hill. Rolling and falling.

I land with a shattering crunch on my left shoulder, the wind vacating my lungs through a silent scream. I gasp for air that won’t come. My chest seizes. Rain and flashes of light blind me as I blink at the sky, the first winded breaths finally drawing into my panicked lungs.

A set of boots land nearby with a heavy thump, approaching to stop next to my head. Rain washes congealed blood from the black leather. I open my mouth to groan Rowan’s name when a hand twists into my hair and tugs me from the comforting scent of earth and wet grass.

I come face-to-face with Harvey Mead.

Rivulets of water cascade from his bald head to drip from his brow and fall across his expressionless face. He stares right into me. I glare back into the abyss of his dark eyes.

And then I spit in his fuck-ugly face.

Harvey doesn’t wipe my saliva away. He holds me steady, letting the rain carry the bloodied streaks down his pockmarked skin. A slow grin pulls his lips back to reveal decaying teeth in a smile that’s unnervingly disconnected from the rest of his apathetic mask.

He drops me but keeps his hold of my hair as he drags my weakened body around the side of the house. My head throbs. My face pulses. Tears sting my eyes with every tug on my hair, the pain in my shoulder radiating up my neck and into my limp arm. My feet scrabble on the grass and mud and debris, but I can’t get any footing with the way he keeps my head down low. I scratch at him and hit his leg with my good hand but he’s far too large to feel any impact from my futile fight.

We stop at a set of cellar doors. Harvey unlocks a rusted padlock and pulls the chain through the handles before opening one door and tossing me inside.

I hit the dirt with a grunt, my first breath filled with the scent of shit and piss and fear.

The contents of my stomach spill across the floor.

It isn’t until I’ve stopped retching that it registers that I’m not alone. Someone is sobbing in the dark.

“Adam,” a woman says through desolate cries. “He killed Adam. I h-heard it. He k-killed him.”

She keeps her distance, repeating her words in a desperate chant that seeps into every crack and crevice of my chest. Brother or lover or friend, whoever this Adam was, she loved him. And I know what it’s like to bear witness to the suffering of someone you love. I understand her grief and powerlessness better than most.

“Yes. He killed Adam,” I reply through strained, panting breaths as I pull my phone from my back pocket. It buzzes in my hand with a message, but I turn on the flashlight first, aiming it

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