Page 76 of Executing Malice

“Stop running. You could have a concussion,” he barks after me.

“Fuck you!” I throw back over my shoulder. “You ... you are living in my ceiling. You put cameras in my house. You’re crazy.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” he states with such a casual brush off. “But I did it for you.”

“You were watching me for me?” I try to turn, but the numbness in my legs has my ankles catching around each other and I’m falling again.

Only I don’t hit the ground.

His arms pull me into his chest. Crush me even as I flail and kick. As I dig my nails and teeth into every exposed piece of skin I can reach. His snarl of pain fuels me as I draw blood. As it rolls across my tongue and shreds beneath my nails.

“Fucking little demon!” he growls.

Somehow, with some magical ability, he’s captured my wrists. They’re shackled at my back with one hand while his other hand is fisted in my hair. He yanks, detaching my teeth from his bicep. Strings of blood and saliva extend between us before he releases my hair and reaches to rip the mask off his face. It’s tossed somewhere, but I don’t get to see his face when his mouth is on mine. His hand is back in my hair. His body is hot and solid wedged against mine.

For a stupid second, I almost relent, but commonsense prevails and I bite his bottom lip. Sink my teeth in until he roars and slams me back into the wall. The impact releases my hold, but not his.

His eyes are brown. Dark and fathomless. Endless voids of rage and desire as they bear down on me from a face too fucking perfect to be real.

High chiseled cheekbones, a sharp nose that is just slightly crocked like it’s been broken too many times. Strong, firm lips now smeared in blood, and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

But features aside, it’s the way he’s watching me, taunting me that turns the heat up in my belly. It’s the challenge in them, like he’s daring me to try and escape.

I headbutt him.

At my height, I only manage to hurt my forehead and get his chin, but it surprises him enough to stagger back a step. I take that as my opening to prop my foot against the wall and use the momentum to shove my entire weight into him, driving him off.

His hold unravels and I bolt.

I do what every horror movie warns us to never do — I abandon the front door and book it towards the back of the house. I sprint in the direction of the kitchen and all the knives.

I have one drawn from the block before he even rounds the corner.

“One more step. I dare you. I know every place in Jefferson where no one will find your body,” I tell him coolly.

Unfazed like he’s had women hold knives at him a million times, he reaches up and sweeps off the baseball cap. It’s chucked into the corner of the room and we’re face to face for the first time.

And boy does my brain go stupid for a second.

His hair is an untamed riot of thick, dark strands that fall in tangles around that beautiful face, nearly graze his wide, broad shoulders. Standing there in nothing but his pants, my marks all over his body, his lip and teeth bloody...

If I survive this, I am definitely going to therapy because no way should I be fighting the urge to charge at him, take him to the ground and rip chunks of flesh off his bones with my teeth while I ride his cock into we both climax.

“You’d miss me,” he counters smoothly.

“You think too highly of yourself,” I mutter, hating that part of me knows he’s right.

“Or I know you. I bet your pussy is soaked right now.”

My cheeks flame hot even as I fight to keep from proving him right by shifting my weight.

“Okay, fucker, go on, tell me how you think you know me.”

He takes a slow, deliberate step closer. Close enough that I could gut him without even trying.

“I don’t think, I do know you ... Alia.”

Without consent, my gaze drops to his left hand and the name I saw inked across his knuckles.