Butcher & Blackbird (The Ruinous Love Trilogy – A Dark Romantic Comedy Series Book 1)

You had to find comfort in being alone because you’ve had no choice.

No boys allowed unless they have scales and a breeding kink.”

“Of all the times to forget my dinosaur onesie at home.” Rowan sighs,

“Something caught your eye, pretty boy?” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says, his voice pained. “God, yes, Sloane. All of you.”

Maybe I’m Fionn’s Girl-chick, Mr. Man-guy Flick-a-shit.

From the second we met, she sparked my curiosity, fanning banked embers into glowing coals, and now she’s ignited the first thread of flame.

I want to know. I want the truth.

I’m sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver.

And she’s fucking beautiful.

Rowan unlocks the door and extends a hand into the shadows of my cage.

“Come on, Blackbird. I’m in the mood for barbecue. What do you say?”

“Sloane. My name is Sloane. The Orb Weaver.”

You might know me as the Boston Butcher.”

“Well, I hadn’t made a reservation, so you have nothing to apologize for.”

“But you have a standing reservation at 3 In Coach,” Meg says with a sweet, knowing smile. She pulls a thumbtack from her podium and passes me a sheet of paper.

Table twelve is PERMANENTLY RESERVED for:

- any reservation under the name Sloane Sutherland

- a beautiful, black-haired woman with hazel eyes and freckles, 5’8”, probably alone, shy, looks like she wants to run

Inform Rowan immediately of any reservations under this name or any guests fitting this description.

And then, in red text as though it was added at a later date:

IMMEDIATELY. I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND.