Page 13 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

The whisper of his lips grazing over mine is broken, a whisper of sadness that crushes what’s left of my heart.

“You know.” No further explanation is given. No comfort. He abandons my arms but only by a step. “Don’t move.”

I obey. Not because I’m scared or willing to comply out of weakness. I legitimately can’t move. I am so lost in a cyclone of thoughts and emotions, I barely know where I even am.

I obey because I’m still picking at that loose corner of wallpaper.

Then, he’s back. He’s dragging my clothes back into place. He’s so gentle, so careful. I’m relieved when he doesn’t attempt to put my bra or panties on. When he gingerly eases me off the table and the light vibration of getting set on my feet ripples up my thighs to tease my clit.

This is going to take some getting used to.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. I do and feel the tender brush of his fingers dragging my blindfold off. “Okay.”

I have to blink a few times to focus on the golden hue of shimmering light. The soft glow of candlelight surrounding the slaughter table stained by a slick sheen of release ... and blood .

I face the man standing too close and not close enough.

His helmet is once more in place, shielding him from me while the rest of him from the waist up is a landscape of interconnected artwork threaded together in a tapestry of pain and nightmares that extend across his entire body.

Interrupted only by a square of white gauze plastered to his abdomen, half hidden beneath the waistband of his cargo pants.

Even in the swaying dance of lights and shadows, each sweep of ink collects across his breathtaking torso in a story that baffles me.

It’s hell.

Distorted faces caught in the sweeping flames of damnation. Men and women screaming as demonic faces sneer in triumph. There isn’t a drop of color, but the simple blacks, grays and whites are enough to haunt the mind.

I swallow before lifting my gaze to the vizor.

“What’s your name?”

“Give me one,” he says quietly.

The humor fails me.

“That isn’t funny. I think I deserve—”

He moves with the silence and grace a man his size shouldn’t possess. Big, tatted hands close around my waist and I’m pulled into all those hard muscles depicting purgatory.

“It’s getting late. You need to go home.”

Without giving me any chance to argue, I am guided across the room and out the door. It’s closed behind me and I’m left standing in the murky kiss of settling dusk. The sun is a strip of gold far in the distance, dragging the cluster of pinks and blues with it.

I have half a mind to turn and march back. To demand answers. To make sense of the conflicting sensations.

In all the years that I can remember, I have never let a man touch me.

Even during the time I attempted to date.

My entire body would recoil at the simple brush of their fingers on my hand.

Every nerve prickled with discomfort and the need to run.

I even briefly considered that maybe I liked women.

And while I find women distractingly beautiful, that wasn’t it either.

Yet this guy.

Not once in all the days and weeks that I’ve caught him outside the bank, leaning or sitting casually on his bike have I felt uncomfortable.

Never felt threatened. When he grabbed me in the basement, I could have fought.

I could have tried harder to get away from him, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t even tried.

I let him pierce me, for God sakes.

But it’s that kiss.

That damn taste of him, his smell, the way he felt so familiar and safe.

I know him.

I don’t know how or when, but...

Frustration trimmed with the blurred edges of a mix of anticipation and excitement, I start up the stairs. Gingerly. Each ascending step teases the piercing, and I am once again baffled by how I let some man poke holes in me.

“I got certified specifically for you.”

I shouldn’t be flattered, but I can’t help it.

“What is wrong with me?” I grumble out loud to myself.

It’s not until I am standing at my car, staring at the scratch and dent in the paint from the asshole in the Yukon that I swear. Loudly.

I punctured all four of his tires and vanished, leaving my car open for his retaliation. Plus, my purse in the passenger’s seat with my car keys and all four doors unlocked.

Swallowing down my panic, I throw open my door and duck in to drag my bag to me.

Everything is inside, exactly where I left it.

Tossing the bag back, I pull out and rush to check my tires.

All still fine.

But the Yukon is gone. Mine is the only car in the entire lot ... untouched. Weird that he didn’t even call Sheriff Brewer. Reed would have immediately recognized my car. He’d have come looking for me.

Baffled, I stand in the cooling night and stare long enough to fully convince myself I imagined it all.

The part with the vandalism, at least, because there’s no pretending I imagined the incident in the basement when the proof continues to burn in reminder, especially when I slide behind the wheel.

Sitting is going to take some getting used to, I think, as I bite my lip and stifle the whimper.

I have to resist the urge to roll up my skirt and peek at my new body art.

I don’t think I’m ready to see it when it feels painful.

I can only imagine how it actually looks.

I will myself to wait as I put the car into drive and start in the direction of home.

I’m not the least bit surprised by the neatly folded scrap of fabric perched on the same porch post. Pink. Simple cotton. Visibly used. I resist the urge to touch it, already knowing exactly what it is.

It’s not mine. That much I’m certain of. While I don’t exactly swim in fancy, lacy, or silky underwear, these are definitely not mine.

Scoffing at the mentality of the man I just let do wildly intimate things to me, I stalk inside and return with a pair of rubber gloves I keep under my sink for dishes. I bunch the panties in my fist and carry it straight to the trash.

Next time I see him, he’s going to be answering some questions because what the fuck?