Page 10 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

I don’t know Elijah Virelli aside from the few glimpses of him around town, but that’s probably where I’ve seen this dick. Virelli is constantly surrounded by men, none from town. It makes the most logical sense.

“Work for?” the man mutters lazily like he’s trying not to laugh. “Sure.”

My jaw tightens. “Were you seriously going to just walk away?”

He continues to stare into my face with the amusement of someone witnessing a monkey do tricks. Like I’m too stupid to be worth his time.

“Yes. You’re not injured. ”

“You hit my car!” I snarl at him. Fuming, I spin and march to the passenger side and stare at the visible dent etched into the burgundy paint. The jagged scratches clearly visible dusting the edges of his door. “You dented my door,” I snap, gesturing to the spot.

“How do I know that wasn’t already there?”

I can’t even begin to formulate the level of audacity this man apparently has. At best, all I’m capable of is staring, gawking and wondering if he’s acting stupid or if he’s actually a fucking idiot.

“Probably because my car paint is on your door,” I point out, struggling with all my patience not to stab him with something sharp.

Eyes void of light, absent of any other color, drifts from me to the flecks of burgundy scratched into his paint.

“Maybe you hit me,” he decides briskly.

It dawns on me that he’s intentionally goading me. He wants me to cause a scene, to rage and act unhinged. He’s trying to gaslight me and manipulate the situation.

So, I stop.

I pull in a slow, easy breath. My attention roams over his features, his oddly formal attire. I take him in, pack up every detail before meeting those cold, inhuman eyes, and say nothing. I give him no more. I stifle the fire he’s fanning .

Amused, he smirks. Victory carved in the sharp slants of his mouth. He remains fixed on my face even when he slides his glasses back into place and pivots on his heels.

“I’ll see you around, Leila,” he calls over his shoulder as he strolls away.

I’m surprised for only a second that he knows my name. Everyone knows everyone’s name in Jefferson. There are a million ways he could have heard mine.

Still, I hate that he knows it. I hate that he has that much over me.

I grind my jaw and watch him pull out his phone and put it to his ear.

I vaguely consider clobbering him over the skull with a rock, dragging him into my trunk and driving out to Hemlock Island.

I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries and read most of Reed’s training manuals to confidently sleep at night knowing no one would find his body.

Instead, I wait until he’s out of sight. I wait until enough of the blood roaring between my ears has subdued before returning to my car. I yank open my door, toss my purse into the next seat and pop open the glove box.

I’m not a violent person. In most cases, I’m pretty proficient at keeping my calm. It’s a requirement to live in Jefferson where people like Dolores Winslow haunt the foundation. But being a good person doesn’t mean being a doormat .

Reed’s Christmas present settles, cold and weighted in my palm. My fingers brush the textured handle as I grip it.

“For emergencies, Leila,” he said when I raised an eyebrow.

At the time, it seemed like such an odd gift; when would I ever need a tactical, fold-up knife?

Now, apparently.

I don’t even second guess my actions as I unfold the blade with the flick of my wrist. The satisfying click has a grin touching my lip. But I don’t savor it. I don’t have time. It’s late enough in the evening that I won’t be alone long.

Still, I cast a glance around the lot. I scan the empty seats of the vehicles closest to me before moving to the driver’s side tire.

The blade sinks through rubber with the first plunge and twist. The back tire meets the same fate. Same as the other side. I get all four before taking a step back ... and freezing.

He stands in the narrow path dividing the bank and the Cut & Curl. Stance wide. Arms folded. The sun dances off the polished curve of his visor in mocking sparks.

I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I probably should have done a few more scans in-between my crimes, but too late now. He’s seen me.

He watched me vandalize private property .

Despite the curl of dread in my gut, it’s defensive outrage that catches in my voice.

“Need something?” I snap, fingers tightening around my weapon.

Not that I’m going to stab him — I think — but my skirt doesn’t have pockets. I have nowhere else to put it.

Without a word, my silent watcher turns to his right and starts walking, moving along the shadowy path behind the shops.

His boots scuff on the gravel. Disturbs the loose stones.

Even with slow, measured strides, his long legs carry him effortlessly to the incline of stairs disappearing under Big Ron’s Butcher Shop.

I stay rooted to my spot, too stunned to even blink.

What the hell just happened?

Maybe it’s a mix of fear and frustration that finally propels me after him.

Reckless, obviously. I’m following a random, masked man into a basement without even the promise of candy.

But that asshole is a witness and I get that, at worst, I’d have to pay for new tires, but witnesses are still a liability.

And I’m not getting that piece of shit new tires. Fuck him.

Each shop has their own storage space beneath them.

The bank has old files from before everything was transferred to digital.

I’ve never been to any of the others. Never had a reason.

Yet, I find my feet hurrying down concrete steps and over the threshold into still shadows without a flicker of thought .

The smell gets me first. It’s a collection of meat, iron, and too much bleach. The latter pools in the air with a vengeance that burns my nose, assaults my throat. I can’t inhale without swallowing the muggy stench.

I get it makes sense. Big Ron uses the basement to cut the meat, to grind and chop, and hang.

Even in the heavy weight of darkness, I can almost make out the hooks.

The loop of chains. I can smell them, copper and rust. But the amount of cleaner used is above standard cleaning. It’s the amount used to hide a crime.

I start to edge back.

My idiot instincts finally catches up to the situation I’ve gotten myself into.

But the scream stills me. Freezes my limbs. I scramble to pinpoint the owner when the room shakes with the crack of my coffin being sealed shut. The punch of air with the door slamming behind me hits me in the back.

I start to spin, heart lodged in my throat, but I get about halfway when a stronger weight slams into me. An iron band clamps across my middle and I’m hoisted off my feet.

In the same motion, the knife is wrenched from my fingers, lifted and set at my jugular, lodging my scream in my throat.

“Shhh,” my assailant whispers softly into my ear. “Everyone’s gone. No one can hear us. ”

He’s right.

It’s after six. Every shop in the hub closes at five, except the bank and the bakery. And Maisie is probably just leaving.

“Let go,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“You followed me,” he drawls.

Heat swells up in my cheeks at the taunt ... and the truth. I had followed him. I’m the reason I’m in this mess.

“What do you want?” I breathe, so very careful not to move.

“Do you want the safe answer or the scary one, Leila?”

The cold flood of dread pools in my gut, spreads numb tingles to my fingers and toes.

“What does that mean?”

His face turns into the side of my neck and I’m vaguely aware that he doesn’t have his helmet on. That should mean something, but the absence of light makes the information useless.

“Take your clothes off.”

I feel the nick. The thin pinch of pain where the blade licks my skin. I feel the jolt of surprise and I have to contain the twitch my body wants to instinctively make. Even the spit I feel collecting in my throat gets stuck, too terrified that I might swallow and get my artery sliced.

I manage a weak, “What?”

“I’m hungry. Take your clothes off. ”

The erratic escalation of my heart hammering in my chest pounds in my ears. Muffles the easy drawl of his voice. The cool whisper of his breath against my skin. I’m trembling and I know he feels it. Still, he doesn’t stop.

“Please...” I begin.

His hold around my center tightens with a subtle warning. “You do it, or I will. Keep in mind, I don’t have any spare clothes for you to put on afterwards.”

His implication is unmistakable — obey and take my clothes off willingly. Quietly. And he won’t rip them off, leaving me to go home naked.

It does register that I should fight. That I shouldn’t simply accept the fate he’s pressing into my jugular. Reed has taught me enough self-defense that I can at least immobilize him enough to run.

But his hold is so steady on my knife. His heart is unwavering, beating against my shoulder blade. He is unfazed and too calm. He wouldn’t think twice about cutting me open.

“I’m going to kill you,” I promise with what little resolve I have lodged in my soul.

His nose grazes the curve of my jaw with an almost endearing nudge. “I would expect nothing less.”

Carefully, with a slowness that feels like I’m moving through molasses, I unhook the first button on my blouse. Then the next. Somehow, I get all the way to where my top is tucked into the waistband of my skirt before the first tear slips.

I’m scared.

Without question. There is no mistaking the fear washing through my veins.

But the slip of weakness has nothing to do with that.

Beneath the tremors is fury. Blinding, murderous rage.

I’m crying out of sheer frustration that I can’t drive my knife into his fucking eye.

I want to cut his dick off. The one pressing with excitement into my lower back.

The blade never wavers, never even lifts as I slip out of every article.

Each one is dropped to the cold cement pressing flat and merciless beneath my bare feet until I am left exposed.

Vulnerable to the monster pulling me closer.

But even with the warmth of his body, the basement is meant for storing meat.

It’s designed to maintain a certain temperature, a chill to keep the product from spoiling.

My nipples could cut glass. They are sharp, painful points hardening under the cruelty.

Goosebumps rise across my skin, making it prickle and sending a shiver through me that I have to control.

“Good girl,” he breathes with husky reverence.

I stare straight ahead at the endless darkness pressing into my eyeballs. “Fuck you.”

His warm chuckle vibrates along my spine. “Not yet. ”

Refusing to acknowledge him any further, I keep my lips firmly sealed. My eyes focused. I stand rigid in the enclosure of his arms.

I’m too disoriented when he nudges me forward. I’ve never been in the butcher shop basement before. I have no idea where he’s taking me, but it’s deeper into the darkness.

We get about five feet before I step into something solid and violently cold.

“Reach down and cuff your wrist.”