Page 73 of Executing Malice

He nuzzles my cheek with the tip of his nose. “Then I filled you with my cum.”

The area in question pangs, a pathetic reminder of what we’d started and had rudely interrupted ... twice.

“You need to stop that,” I tell him with no heat.

His lips find mine, remarkably gentle followed by a firm, “No.”

The knife — my knife that Reed had given me and I used to keep in my car before he stole it — is lifted just enough for me to draw in a proper breath. I catch a glimpse of it before he skillfully closes the blade back into the handle and stuffs it into his pocket.

He ignores my protest by lifting his head and giving me the barest hint of his eyes and the solid chisel of his lips. Both arepainted in a faint shadow made thicker by his massive body blocking out any light that may have touched him.

“I want a baby,” he states with a seriousness that leaves no room for argument, but argue, I do.

“Not until I see your face,” I shoot back, refusing to budge on the matter. “I’m not getting knocked up by some masked weirdo who appears and disappears at random.”

His head cocks to one side, the gesture of a dog hearing something in the distance.

“You think I’d abandon you?”

No. That never even crossed my mind, though, now that he said it, it probably should have.

“It’s not about that. You can’t have a baby with someone you don’t know. It’s commitment, and trust.”

“You don’t trust me?”

I draw in a slow, calming breath. “I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name. I don’t know what color your eyes are or your hair—”

“And when you do, you’ll give me a baby.”

Not a question.

It’s a matter of fact that makes me want to laugh and growl at him. “Why do you want a baby so badly with me? You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know everythingabout you.”

Something in that bold declaration has my temper prickling. It sharpens the words I bite through my teeth.

“You don’t. You don’t know a fucking thing.”

I nudge against his shoulders and I’m relieved when he pulls back. I scoot up to a sitting position and face the figure kneeling before me. He’s drawn his mask back into place so all I can just make out are the glints in his eyes.

“You have no idea what kind of person I am or what kind of life I’ve lived.”

“I do—”

“Stop it!” I snap, voice wavering. “Stop pretending like...” I break myself off, breathing hard as I try to vomit the truth without scaring him off.

Talking about my past always leaves me feeling vulnerable and dirty, like it’s something I should be ashamed of. It’s always where I lose people. It’s too weird. Too risky. People don’t like gambling their futures on someone who seemingly crawled out of the ground.

Granted, I’ve never actually had to tell anyone. Most people in Jefferson know the story. It was a big deal eight years ago. But what if he realizes just how broken I actually am and it’s too much? What if he decides he didn’t sign up for that much trauma?

“I’m not this person. I mean...” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m this person now, but I wasn’t always. I don’t know the person I was so I made this person to make up...”

I have no idea what I’m talking about.

The words are a jumbled pile of steaming shit I can’t explain even to myself.

“I know,” he says too softly. Too ... sure. It pisses me off.