Page 112 of Executing Malice

His fingers twitch against the armrest, scratching the underside lightly with his nails. I keep my head tucked against his shoulder, face half nestled into the side of his neck, but I can feel the heavy thump of his pulse. The tension coiling through his muscles.

And I realize this is new information for me, but a nightmare I’m forcing him to relive, especially given that he’s cut his entire family from his life.

“We don’t have to talk about—”

His head turns and he presses his lips to my forehead in the sweetest, tenderest kiss.

“No. You need this.”

I lift my head so our faces are level. “Not if it makes you sad.”

His chest lifts against mine with his deep inhale. “I’m not sad. It pisses me off. Everything about those days infuriates me. I’m pissed at my parents, my siblings ... at myself. If I had been stronger, you never would have been taken from me.”

It’s so ridiculous, but the vehement tightness in every line of his face has me swallowing down my laugh of disbelief.

“Dante—”

His fingers brush my cheek. “I swear to you, I will never let that happen again.”

I believe him.

It’s hard not to when the fire in his eyes is all consuming.

“Did I have any goals? Dreams? Aspirations?” I ask, pivoting the conversation away from our home life.

“You loved baking.” The corner of his mouth tilts up on one side. “You were terrible at it.”

“Hey!” I laugh.

Dante chuckles. “We’d wait until everyone was in bed and we’d sneak down to the kitchen, and you’d try to bake whatever recipe you found.” He gives his head a slow shake. “It never turned out.”

“I’ll have you know I am very good at it now,” I lie.

He doesn’t look like he disbelieves me, but his smile is the kind you’d give a child claiming they can fly. “You danced. A lot. Nothing specific, but you loved music and just moving with it. Our dream was to run away when you turned eighteen, get our own place and start a family. That was our goal and aspiration. We were going to figure out the rest once we got away from my family.”

“It was that bad, huh?”

All the warmth slips from his face and he exhales. “Worse. Our only mission was to get out. We saved every dollar we got our hands on and had enough for first and a downpayment on an apartment. We planned to sleep on the floor until we both got jobs and could buy furniture. You’d joke it would be like camping.”

“I don’t think I left,” I blurt. “I don’t know how I got here, but I wouldn’t leave you.”

He says nothing a moment while gingerly setting the paper aside and settling his palm flat against my hip.

“If you had, you had every reason to,” he murmurs. “You went through a lot to stay.” His gaze drops to his hand, to the thumb lightly brushing my hipbone. “My dad liked little girls,” he says it fast, like it was a weight pushing against his lungs. “My brother Everett ... he was just a piece of shit. Sadistic and cruel. The kind of monster you see in documentaries. They never touched you,” he adds quickly. “I wouldn’t let them, and whenyou got older, you started fighting back and they eventually left you alone.”

“How old was I when I came to live with you?”

“Thirteen. You were the longest foster kid we’d ever had.”

Because of you,I think. I fought hard to stay so I would be with him. It’s the only explanation.

“Do you think...” I trail off, debating my next set of words, but too curious to backtrack now. “Do you think it was your brother or Dad who took me?”

He immediately shakes his head. “My dad was a drunk asshole, but he was too lazy to drive you two provinces over. Plus, he was home that whole day.”

“Your brother?”

Dante goes quiet. His gaze shifts in the direction of windows.