Page 16 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

DANTE

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She lies still in my arms.

There are no more demons chasing her.

No more cries for help.

No more fighting invisible forces threatening to harm her.

She lies where she has always belonged — folded safe against my chest. Her face wedged in the hollow of my throat.

I cradle her with my fingers moving in rhythmic strokes through her tangled strands.

I breathe in the soft warmth of her skin stained by my scent.

The moment is one full of such promise. Like I could simply close my eyes and sleep with her without worrying about her waking up in the morning and finding me here.

But there are still too many days left, too many planned gifts. As much as I want to rush and reveal myself to her, to start our lives, I have to be patient. I have to follow the plan.

Annoyed but accepting, I release her. I wait until the first hint of sunlight slices against the glass before I brush a kiss to her temple, drag the sheets securely around her in my place and slip free.

I’m very good at sneaking, slipping in and out of places.

Leila remains oblivious as I slide off the bed and stand next to her, barefoot and topless.

I’d been half asleep when her whimpering woke me in my little hidey hole.

It’s the first nightmare she’s had since my return.

The gut-wrenching sound of it had me scrambling out of my makeshift bed and tumbling down the ladder like nothing ever changed.

Like we were still kids and I’d pushed my bed against the wall dividing us just to hear her, to be prepared for that first uncomfortable groan.

I wonder if I caused it. If my gift yesterday had prompted her slip into the dream. I wonder if I’m scaring her.

I hope so.

I want her uneasy and scared. I want her unsure. I want her to question everything. Maybe that makes me an asshole, but everything I do is payback. A taste of her own medicine. The fact that she couldn’t even name me yesterday when she clearly recognized me said a lot.

I was that forgettable.

I meant nothing to her.

All those years we spent in hell together, fighting to survive every hour like a pair of soldiers...

I was so easily discarded in her mind that she couldn’t even assume, couldn’t even take a wild guess to my identity.

I turn away from her .

I have to. If I continue to brew in my anger, my pain, I might do something reckless.

Something there is no coming back from. But yesterday was a clear sign that I need to finish this game.

I need to see it through. I need to haunt her like she’s haunted me and break her like she’s broken me.

I need to make her see me again, to remember she belongs to me.

Still, I bend at the waist and steal a kiss from her parted lips before leaving to prepare for the day. It’s going to be a long one ... for her. The thrill of it has my mood lifting slightly as I return to my crawl space and boot up my computer.

I test the charge on my new toys. They’re going to need every drop of juice for what I have in mind. I grin to myself as I check the connection and stow each item into my bag.

Toiletries in hand, I tiptoe downstairs.

Laila is a creature of habit and won’t start to stir for another solid twenty minutes.

After a hurried shower — I usually have more time — there’s ten minutes to spare when I sprint out the backdoor and across the yard.

My strides are brisk, but unhurried headed to the wall of trees surrounding her property.

Seriously, it’s a serial killer’s dream.

Not another house for miles. Each one neatly pigeonholed in a cocoon of wilderness.

I’ve been coming and going as I please for a month and haven’t seen another soul.

More concerning than that, no one’s seen me.

I’ve been living in her attic for nearly three months and even her human cop person — still not her brother — has noticed.

Some fucking cop.

That’s the problem with small towns. Everyone gets so comfortable. They think nothing bad will ever happen to them. They’d notice.

I’ve been sitting outside her work every day for hours! Her non-brother hasn’t asked me once what the fuck I’m doing there. The only people who have are the busybodies, and Leila.

It takes some trekking to loop through the bushes and around to where I’ve parked my bike. It’s hidden well enough behind a thicket of brush about ten minutes from the house.

Honestly, this is the thing I am not going to miss once I start my life with Leila. Parking so far from the house and hiding. I’ll feel better once I can park my bike in the driveway next to her Fiesta and not worry about it.

I exhale and jostle my bag higher on my shoulder.

Eight more days.

It’s mildly irritating that I’m beginning to like Jefferson.

Coming from the shabbier side of downtown Toronto, it’s as close to paradise as someone like me will ever be allowed.

I don’t think I’d mind if Leila wanted to stay.

We could find a small apartment or get our own place.

I’m not wholly set on the idea of living in her parent’s house.

They’ll eventually return from traveling, and I don’t want to share Leila.

They had her for eight years already. It’s my turn.

But, I suppose, if Leila wanted to stay there, I’d be willing to discuss it.

Reaching my bike, I sling off my backpack and swap it in the sidesaddle for my helmet. Leila should just be getting up and ready. Most likely, she’ll be in the shower. It gives me a few minutes to grab breakfast and return to my usual place.

I do wonder if Leila will attempt to hide again. I feel bad I didn’t play her game the way she wanted, but I was too busy getting the slaughterhouse sterilized and our dinner ready. It had been a full day of preparation. But I think she enjoyed the outcome.

If not, I’m fully prepared to make it up to her.

With thoughts of yesterday still fresh in my mind, my brain clicks back to the sight I’d walked in on.

When I went to find Leila, I hadn’t expected to see her puncturing holes in some random Yukon.

I meant to ask her about it, but ... priorities.

Whatever her reasons were, the owner had it coming.

Leila has always been rational and levelheaded, except when her buttons are pushed.

Granted, it doesn’t take much. She gives a warning before handling it her way, which usually ends with the other person regretting their choices, or calling the cops .

I chuckle to myself as I hop over a log.

Leila is vengeful. Sadistic to the core and violent. All the things that mirror my soul.

She completes me. Fills that void inside so I don’t feel like I’m alone with these inclinations. She accepted me, nourished that hunger we both seem to have for pain and destruction.

Her rage was the very reason Everett could never touch her. It was her wrath, her thirst for blood that scared my brother — my brutal and twisted monster of a brother — into stay away from her. He tried. Every chance he got to have her and each time, he left bloody.

Until the night Leila slipped out of my bed, crawled into his. I didn’t find out until the next day and only because Mom found Everett tied and gagged in his bed, sheets soaked in blood. His chest carved open with a fork.

I know Everett never got over that. But he never tried to touch her again.

Amused by the memory, I straddle my bike and kick up the stand. I rev the engine once before pushing off.

Jefferson in the fall is a surreal experience.

I’ve never been into Hallmark movies, but the dedication this town seems to show for its seasons is unmatched.

Even the air is dusted with the sweet scent of cinnamon and — God help me — pumpkin spice.

I never liked that shit in the city, but it fits here .

Maybe I’ll get Leila one of those fancy spice drinks the baker girl makes.

Maisie.

If I’m going to live with these people, I need to start remembering their names. But I’ve seen women stroll out of her bakery with steaming cups of apple cider and cinnamon that make my mouth water. I think Leila would like one. And one of those carrot muffins I saw in the window a few days back.

The bell chimes over the doors of Mama May’s Diner as I step through.

I drag my helmet off and tuck it under my arm.

I don’t get nearly as many side-eyes as I did in the beginning.

There’s the Stepford wives committee in the far right corner with their sixty’s hairdos and crimson smiles who still eye me with mixtures of interest and suspicion.

I’m careful not to make eye contact with anyone.

Last thing I need is for one of them to skip over and strike up a conversation.

Mavis ... no. Mandy? Shoot. What the hell is her name? The waitress with the bright orange ringlets curled tight against her scalp and a face as doughy as Maise’s pies twists small, stubby hands in a towel and blinks at me.

“Well, if it isn’t our man of mystery.” She pops out one hip and spears the other with her fist. “Usual?”

Mable .

Her name stares at me from the plastic tag pinned to her ample bosom.

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, digging into my back pocket for my wallet.

I can feel Mable trying to peer in, probably to catch sight of some ID or just being nosy. Joke’s on her. I don’t carry my ID in my wallet. Only thing in the leathery folds is cash.

I pass her the proper amount, plus tip. She accepts it but doesn’t stuff it into the till.

“You know,” she begins, loud enough that I know I’m not going to like it, “we don’t get many newcomers around these parts, especially anyone who isn’t really doing anything.”