Page 65 of Savage Keepsakes

“What’re we having?”

“You,” he breathes into my ear.

Chills run through me, but as much as I might want to have him ruthlessly fuck me into oblivion, I need food first.

“Lame.” I scrunch my face up into fake disgust before laughing.

Billy picks me up, twirling us so my back is against the wall, and I grip his shoulders. Looking down into his eyes, I wait for a response. He smirks.

“Alright, I’ll feed ya. But then your ass is mine.”

“Fair,” I say.

I run my hands through his neon-green hair, which is already losing its colour, and clutch hisface, lowering to meet his lips. His grasp on me tightens. I nestle into his neck and we stay like that for a minute.

“Scratch it. Maybe I need all the cuddles in the world.”

“Food, water, sex and then cuddles?” I nod as he lowers me to the ground.

“I’ll make something. Go get your laptop.” He grabs a black tee-shirt and wiggles his eyebrows at me before leaving the room.

I walk into my office and grab my computer and notebook. On my desk, there’s a folded piece of paper. I pull it open with one hand.

Lou, wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. Doing the hard things, writing the book, putting in the work on yourself… everything. love you so fucking much. — Billy

I put it away with the other couple I have. It’s sweet that he writes me notes, and the little trinkets or flowers that find their way to my desk always make my heart full.

Heading down the stairs, I unload my stuff on the kitchen table and open the document, going back to the highlighted parts of my story.

“Did you learn how long it’d take someone to die of shock, or if they’d live through the skinning and burning?” I ask.

With my head resting on my hand, I scroll through the content. I don’t know what he’s cooking, but the delicious aroma fills the air.

As he dances in the kitchen, his body sways to the rhythm of the song, filling the room with his infectious energy.

“I did, hold on,” he says.

Mixing something in the pot, he checks the stove and turns off the music before pulling the produce out of the fridge.

“So, I think it’s plausible. It would depend on the person’s pain tolerance. I assume bodies are all different that way, too.”

He goes back to stirring and then chops vegetables. “Stop staring. It’s called cooking.”

When my attention moves from his tattooed hands to his face, he’s smirking. “What’re you making?”

“Salad, pasta, and garlic bread.”

I didn’t even know I had the ingredients to make all of that. I’m not shabby with cooking, but I don’t love it enough to put in the effort. Sandwiches are my go-to meal—a solid PB&J hasn’t ever let me down.

“What about the hole in the head?” I glance back down at my story and add more details about the killing. With these characters, I decide they can take it. I’ll make a weaker one later.

“Hole saw. It fits most drills. It’s the bit they use to make the holes in doors and shit, I think.”

As the scent of garlic fills the kitchen, I nod and continue typing away, occasionally stealing glances at him as he vibes with the music, which is my absolute favourite thing to watch.

“Billy?”

“Lou?”

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