Page 78 of Executing Malice

It hurts.

Hurts to know that I have finally found my past and I still have no idea what happened.

Hurts seeing the pain in his eyes as he searches my face like he too has lost something precious.

“Sit,” he murmurs when it becomes evident neither of us know what to say next.

I’m not given a choice where when he takes me by the waist and lifts me up onto the counter, next to the knife I put down. My bare ass settles on the cold linoleum as he leaves me to move to the fridge.

I watch him unload a carton of eggs and milk. I watch him move around my kitchen like he knows every corner of it. There is no hesitation in his process.

“How long have you been living in my ceiling?”

A frying pan is placed on the stove and glazed with a square of butter.

“A month.” He tracks down a bowl and cracks four eggs inside. “You really need to lock your doors.”

I scoff. “Right because it’s my fault you broke in.”

His head tilts in my direction. His eyes — a softer brown in the warm gold of sunlight — fixes on my face with a deadpan expression of disapproval.

“It is. I could have been dangerous.”

I watch the veins across the back of his hand bulge and ripple with the flick of his wrist fluffing the eggs with a fork. The hypnotic dance continues along his forearm where his biceps flex.

Oh man.

Dangerous is right.

“Hey, eyes up here, pervert.”

I blink and focus on the two fingers he’s waving up towards his amused expression.

“What?” I blurt stupidly.

The corner of his mouth lifts. I catch it even as he turns away with his soupy eggs.

“We’re having a serious conversation. You can’t eye-fuck me right now.”

Heat swells in my cheeks even as I twist my face into a scowl. “I was not.”

The pan sizzles with the dumping of the concoction. The salt and pepper are added after ... the way I like it. When the corners crisp — the way I like — he flips the whole piece over ... the way I like.

“I guess you’ve been watching me pretty closely.”

He slants me a sidelong glance. “No. Yes,” he corrects with a shrug, “but you’ve always liked your eggs like a pancake with crispy edges.”

Something about that statement punches me in the gut.

“What else do I do the same?”

I hoped he missed the constriction in my throat, but he faces me, expression soft.

“You love horror movies, especiallyHalloween. You always had a weird thing forMyers.” He gives me a lopsided grin when I chuckle. “Your favorite color is wine purple, which is basically burgundy.”

“It is not! It’s very different,” I huff, and bubble inside when he laughs the most beautiful, intoxicating laugh.

The kind that rumbles up from the belly, raw and masculine. It scuttles up my spine and sends a shiver through me.