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“Why?” I ask, and it comes out all wrong, kind of accusatory. Her eyes darken.

“I mean, what was his reason?” I hate how I stumble over my words. Eating her out is easier than talking to her. “Not what did you do. I know you didn’t do anything.”

Something in her face softens like she understands what I’m asking. “I don’t—” She takes a deep breath. “Because I wouldn't do what he wanted. And because he knew I was going to leave him.” She squeezes her arms more tightly around herself. “That’s why I’m here. I was planning to leave him, but when he did this,when he—” She stops herself. “I had to get out. So I came here. The last place he would look for me.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I don’t understand much, but I understand thatI’mthe reason he wouldn’t come looking for her here, because of what I did for her.

“I would never do something like that to you,” I say, nodding at her eye, at the dark bruises around her throat.

She stares at me like she isn’t sure how to respond.

When I came in here after she found the head, I just wanted to make sure she wouldn’t call the cops. But being so close to her, smelling her, I couldn’t stop myself. Especially when she didn’t even try to push me away.

Now I don’t know what to do next. Part of me wants to take her back to my little church, but it’s not nice enough for her yet.

“I’ll take the head,” I tell her. “You don’t gotta worry about that.”

For a moment, she looks confused. Then her eyes go wide with understanding. A flash of fear. My cock stirs even though I just came.

“Don’t bother calling the cops,” I say. “They won’t find me.”

She blinks, but I turn away before I do something stupid, like knock her head against the counter so I can drag her back through the woods to my church. I stalk out of the cabin, my heart hammering, and grab the head by its blood-stiff hair as I leave. Fucking blood on the porch, too. I’ll need to take care of that. But not right now.

Because I finally tasted her, my perfect prey. And now that I’ve had a taste, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop eating.

CHAPTER NINE

EDIE

When I wake up the next morning, the lemony sunlight streaming in through the window tells me it’s at least noon, probably later. For a moment, I just lay in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the faint, pleasant ache between my legs, evidence that what happened last night was real.

Sawyer Caldwell is alive.

But more than that, Sawyer Caldwell made me come four times over the course of an hour.

I sit up and reach for my cell phone on the bedside table, then remember it’s not there. After Sawyer slipped out of the cabin last night, I waited until I was certain he was gone and then went outside to get my purse. I’ll give him this much: He took the head. Blood still slicked across the porch, though.

I brought my purse inside and took out the phone, my hands shaking. But I did not dial 911. I did not call the police because I knew they would contact Scott, and, absurdly, I’m more afraid of him than I am of Sawyer Caldwell.

Instead, I set the phone down on the kitchen counter two feet from where Sawyer made me sob with overwhelming pleasurewhile he jerked himself off. I found his cum splattered across the kitchen tile after he left. It should have disgusted me, and it did. But it also sent a weird, uncomfortable curl of heat between my thighs.

Sort of like what I feel now.

I move slowly, pushing myself out of bed, and get dressed. All my movements are mechanical. Robotic. I try to keep my thoughts focused, but they keep slipping into memories of last night.

I’ve never even had two orgasms in one session, much less four.

When I go out into the front of the cabin, part of me expects (hopes?) Sawyer will be there, watching me with those dark, burning eyes. He’s not, of course. Everything looks exactly as it did when I went to bed last night. My phone is even still sitting on the counter.

I pick it up, knowing I really should call the police. Scott’s an entire continent away, and a serial killer is living next to me in the woods. But then I see that it’s nearly 3 PM and I’ve missed five calls and at least a dozen text messages—all of them from Charlotte. For a moment, I’m struck with a sudden surge of panic.

How did sheknow?

But of course she didn’t. Sawyer Caldwell has nothing to do with why she was texting. I skim through the messages, and my panic doesn’t subside but changes. Becomes more immediate. More urgent.

Charlotte

Did you eat dinner?