Page 11 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

––––––––

Real cuffs with weighted steel loops snap around flesh and bone. The grind of teeth sliding into place rips through the silence, stifling the gasp I’m not quick enough to swallow.

It’s a table for slaughter. A solid sheet of solid metal, cold and sterile, and the final place for dead things. It makes me think of a mortuary table as he shoves me up, forces every inch of naked flesh to unfold and settle into place on the counter.

“Don’t worry. I’ll warm you up,” he promises, him and his knife slipping away long enough to capture my ankle and drag my leg over the lip.

A second cuff snaps into place, fastening me to the table leg. He repeats the motions with my other side, locking me into place in the most open and obscene position. Even in the dark, I know how I would look with my limbs pulled over the edges and bound to the table bolted to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I demand, stupidly, more confident now that the knife is no longer threatening to kill me.

“Giving you your next gift. ”

I frown in the direction of his silhouette, the blurry outline of him moving around the table with the ease of someone unaffected by the darkness.

“So, you’re the one leaving that creepy shit,” I snap.

He pauses. His movements halt and I feel the weight of his gaze leveled on my face.

“Creepy? That’s hurtful.”

I want to roll my eyes, but he’s moving again. I feel him stalk past my left side and up towards my head.

Something touches my face. My head is lifted as it slides down and over my eyes.

I’m about to point out that I already can’t see, a blindfold is redundant, when a faint halo of light frames the satin slip. I realize he’s lit something. A candle, maybe, judging from the soft, swaying glow.

Chained and naked, I have never felt so exposed.

So ... self-conscious. It’s ridiculous because I sure as hell don’t give a shit what this asshole thinks of my body, but .

.. My stomach isn’t flat. My hips are too round.

There is weight and stretch marks in places I usually like to keep concealed.

And with my eyes covered, I can’t see if he’s disgusted.

If he’s laughing.

“I hate you,” I whisper, muscles coiling, chains clinking as my body instinctively tries to pull together .

The hot well of tears burn my eyelids. Soak into the mask.

“I’ll change your mind,” he murmurs, sounding distracted.

“Why are you doing this?” I snap, hating the faint wisp of a tremor sneaking into my voice.

His answer is the barest brush of fingertips along the untrim line of my waist.

I flinch and he stills.

Without a word, he moves away. I hear him drift over somewhere to my left. Sticky, metal wheels squeal on concrete as something is dragged over.

He’s going to cut me open.

This is it. This is how I die. This is how Reed is going to find my mutilated and naked body. My poor parents will have to cut their trip short and hurry back. Mom will be devastated. Dad will get very quiet and blame himself. All because I followed a masked psychopath into a basement.

I brace for the sound of a bone saw. Maybe the sizzle of a brand. Something surgical and terrifying.

Instead, there’s a clatter. The distinct clink of cutlery striking ceramic.

Dishes?

A new set of worries start to creep in — is he going to eat me? Like literally ?

I’m about to protest, tell him I really wouldn’t taste good when something hot lands on my stomach with a moist, soggy plop.

I squeak.

My restraints rattle violently as my entire body jolts at the disgusting sensation.

Is it shit? Did he shit on my stomach?

My horror is only stifled by the slow ooze of liquid running down my sides, by the second splat of something creamy hitting my chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I wheeze, careful to breathe through my mouth just in case.

But a person can only hold their breath for so long and I have no choice but to exhale. Then inhale ... warm, buttery gravy. Delicious, succulent fried meat.

Steak?

I recall his statement earlier about being hungry, but never, not in my wildest dreams did I ever expect him to turn me into a literal charcuterie board. A human table.

Maybe this is the appetizer. Maybe he’s going to start with a nice side of human steak before cutting through into me.

“Please don’t flay me,” I blurt, breathing hard as I hear cutlery clinking in neat rows along the table next to my hip. “I know it looks like I have really soft skin, but there isn’t enough for you to wear.”

He pauses.

I feel the air shift next to me and then a chuckle. Low and amused.

“You think I’m going to ask you to put the lotion in the basket?”

I lick my lips. “Honestly, I’d rather you eat me than wear me, if I get a choice.”

“Interesting.”

A fork tings gently. I flinch when weight is added to the thing on my heaving stomach. It remains firm and steady as he saws through it ... with a knife.

He’s cutting the steak ... on my stomach. I cease breathing with the first whisper of jagged teeth kissing skin.

“Open,” he offers lightly. “I made it myself. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Who is it?” I squeak. “Do I know them?”

I can almost hear the roll of his eyes in the heave of his sigh. “It’s not a person, Leila. It’s beef.” He pauses before asking, “would you eat it if you didn’t know them?”

I consider the question. “Would you let me go if I did?”

I was not expecting the brush of his mouth on mine until he’s pulling away. The hard, weirdly sweet kiss lingers, burning my lips long after he’s drawn back .

“Open,” he says again, amusement still in his voice.

I don’t know how fast Stockholm is supposed to set in, but I open obediently. A little proud of myself for making him smile.

The chunk of beef slips between my lips. Warm, buttery richness floods my mouth. The perfect blend of seasoning explodes across my tongue. It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted and I am powerless to stop the low moan that escapes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice dragging like velvet across my flushed — and sticky — body. “Swallow.”

I do. Mostly because I’m still scared he might change his mind about wearing my skin, but also because if this is my last meal, I’m going to enjoy it.

“Did you drug it?” Still, I snake my tongue out to lick the juice from the corner of my mouth. “Is this how you get your victims to be quiet?”

He snorts. “If I wanted you quiet, I would have gagged you with your own panties.”

I choke. “Jesus.”

Long fingers close around my throat. Squeeze just enough to scatter my thoughts .

“Dead or not, you will never use another man’s name while you’re naked for me. I am the only man who will live and die for your sins, Leila.”

Oh shit.

“I’m not great with commitment,” I breathe, voice unmistakably raspy.

The fingers disappear and I suck in a breath. I barely get a chance to exhale when my lips are nudged with a fresh chunk of meat that I immediately accept.

“We’ll work on that,” he says, following the steak with creamy mashed potatoes.

By the sixth or seventh sawing of the beef, I don’t even stiffen anymore. Even when the teeth graze my belly, a compliant part of me knows he won’t actually hurt me.

I think.

Maybe the meal is drugged and I’m going to become the next unsolved murder case, but my body is ... comfortable. Okay, not exactly. My shoulders are starting to ache and the edges of the table digs into the soft tissues of my thighs, but I’m not scared.

Stupid? Yes. Definitely.

My brain can’t even begin to comprehend the sheer idiocy, but my body feels safe.

Aroused .

I can’t be sure if it’s from the low murmur of his voice — which sounds deliciously husky and dangerous without the helmet — or the drag of the fork along my ribcage.

The tease of the prongs over my nipples.

The sweep of meat dipping into mashed potatoes.

But something about this fucked up situation has me shifting to ease the pressure building between my sprawled thighs. The restraints clink and bite tighter.

“That’s enough,” he decides with an almost knowing drawl. “I want to give you your gift now.”

I love getting gifts.

I love surprises.

But I’m severely concerned about what his might be. Everything so far has been so strange.

Still, I say nothing as he sweeps the lingering bits of leftover food off my body. As he runs a warm cloth over my skin, cleaning the juices. The table around me and under me are also scrubbed with me still fixed in place.

Everything he does is methodical and precise. There is no hurry in his process. No urgency. Just the focused duty of a soldier completing a task. There is nothing sexual or provoking in his process, but he’s thorough. Wiping and washing multiple times as if determined to leave nothing behind .

He’s slower around my middle, almost loving. He runs the rag along the soft flesh with the care of someone handling a baby.

Still, even with his thoughtfulness, I shift with unease.

My muscles coil to stop myself from trying to cover up.

My weight may be proportional to my height and only something I’m sure is only an issue in my head, but I notice.

I’m very aware that my stomach bulges when I wear tight outfits.

I know I struggle getting jeans over my hips.

I actively go out of my way to find clothes that flow over or stretch.

It’s been a big comfort not ever having a boyfriend, someone else who gets to see parts of me I can’t change.

Only now, I have this guy touching me like he’s been given free access to a priceless piece of art.

I don’t like it.

It’s made worse by the fact that I can’t see what he’s actually thinking. Words without visuals are useless. It’s all in the other person’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Can’t give you your gift on a dirty canvas.”

I try to process his remark, but my brain falters. “What?”