Page 28 of Executing Malice

“Who are you?”

The whisper of his lips grazing over mine is broken, a whisper of sadness that crushes what’s left of my heart.

“You know.” No further explanation is given. No comfort. He abandons my arms but only by a step. “Don’t move.”

I obey. Not because I’m scared or willing to comply out of weakness. I legitimately can’t move. I am so lost in a cyclone of thoughts and emotions, I barely know where I even am.

I obey because I’m still picking at that loose corner of wallpaper.

Then, he’s back. He’s dragging my clothes back into place. He’s so gentle, so careful. I’m relieved when he doesn’t attempt to put my bra or panties on. When he gingerly eases me off the table and the light vibration of getting set on my feet ripples up my thighs to tease my clit.

This is going to take some getting used to.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. I do and feel the tender brush of his fingers dragging my blindfold off. “Okay.”

I have to blink a few times to focus on the golden hue of shimmering light. The soft glow of candlelight surrounding the slaughter table stained by a slick sheen of release ... and blood.

I face the man standing too close and not close enough. His helmet is once more in place, shielding him from me while the rest of him from the waist up is a landscape of interconnected artwork threaded together in a tapestry of pain and nightmares that extend across his entire body. Interrupted only by a square of white gauze plastered to his abdomen, half hidden beneath the waistband of his cargo pants. Even in the swaying dance of lights and shadows, each sweep of ink collects across his breathtaking torso in a story that baffles me.

It’s hell.

Distorted faces caught in the sweeping flames of damnation. Men and women screaming as demonic faces sneer in triumph. There isn’t a drop of color, but the simple blacks, grays and whites are enough to haunt the mind.

I swallow before lifting my gaze to the vizor.

“What’s your name?”

“Give me one,” he says quietly.

The humor fails me.

“That isn’t funny. I think I deserve—”

He moves with the silence and grace a man his size shouldn’t possess. Big, tatted hands close around my waist and I’m pulled into all those hard muscles depicting purgatory.

“It’s getting late. You need to go home.”

Without giving me any chance to argue, I am guided across the room and out the door. It’s closed behind me and I’mleft standing in the murky kiss of settling dusk. The sun is a strip of gold far in the distance, dragging the cluster of pinks and blues with it.

I have half a mind to turn and march back. To demand answers. To make sense of the conflicting sensations.

In all the years that I can remember, I have never let a man touch me. Even during the time I attempted to date. My entire body would recoil at the simple brush of their fingers on my hand. Every nerve prickled with discomfort and the need to run. I even briefly considered that maybe I liked women. And while I find women distractingly beautiful, that wasn’t it either.

Yet this guy.

Not once in all the days and weeks that I’ve caught him outside the bank, leaning or sitting casually on his bike have I felt uncomfortable. Never felt threatened. When he grabbed me in the basement, I could have fought. I could have tried harder to get away from him, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t even tried.

I let him pierce me, for God sakes.

But it’s that kiss.

That damn taste of him, his smell, the way he felt so familiar and safe.

I know him.

I don’tknow how or when, but...

Frustration trimmed with the blurred edges of a mix of anticipation and excitement, I start up the stairs. Gingerly. Each ascending step teases the piercing, and I am once again baffled by how I let some man poke holes in me.