Page 31 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

Is that my name? Nothing about it feels familiar.

There are no flashes of memory or unexpected bursts of realization like they show in movies as I replay the name in my head.

Still, my heart escalates its beating, growing louder between my ears as I realize he’s from before.

He knew me. Knows where I come from, who I was.

“Who are you?”

His arms fold over his chest. “Let me check your head.”

I purse my lips. “Was I stupid in my past life that you think I would fall for that?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “You were pretty stupid,” his grin widens when I sputter in outrage, “for wanting anything to do with someone like me.”

I continue to scowl at him. “So, who are you? Who am I?”

His shoulders lift with the deep inhale. He seems to be bracing for whatever devastating revelation he’s about to make.

“Alia Rivers. You were seventeen when you ... when you went missing.” His chin lowers like the guilt of those words are too much to bear. “Last time I saw you, you were headed to school.”

The knife wavers in my grip. The sudden weight of it feels infinite, but I don’t let it lower.

“Who are you?” I ask again for what feels like the hundredth time. “How do I know you?”

His head tips just a notch, just high enough that he’s peering up through his thick, dark lashes at me. “That is not an easy answer.”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, I asked for your name, not the square root of pie.”

He sighs and straightens. His hands vanish into his pockets.

“Dante.”

Nothing.

Not a flicker.

Not a tingle.

Any hope I may have had that his name held the key to my memory crumbles to ashes. It sits in my throat, thick and gritty.

And the entire time, he’s watching me with the kind of hope that makes my stomach hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper .

His gaze drops with the drooping of his shoulders. “What happened?”

Against my better judgment, maybe because he looks so devastated, but I put the knife down on the counter. I fold my arms across my belly like I can somehow hold him together.

“I woke up in the woods. Evan was there telling me to stay still. That’s all I remember.”

He draws in a slow, calming breath. “But how did you get here? We lived two provinces over.”

Provinces?

Sheriff Brewer and even my parents all assumed I was from one of the towns around Jefferson. That makes sense why no one claimed me. The news didn’t spread past Pinecrest. No one would be looking for me there.

“Where?’ I take a step closer, emotions rising up my throat like the pressure in a bottle of wine. “Where did I come from? How did I get here? Who are you? Not just your name,” I cut him off when he opens his mouth, “who are you to me? How do you know me?”

I don’t pull away when his hands touches my face. He seems to need the contact as much as I do.

“You were my world. The reason I woke up every morning.” He tips my chin up gently. “Still are.”

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, especially Halloween . You always had a weird thing for Myers .” 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.

“We’ve had this argument. You’re still inaccurate.”

I plant my hands along the edges of the counter and give a little kick off my legs. “It’s fine. You’re still pretty to look at, even if you’re color blind.”

He rolls his eyes. “You love sushi, but you take the rolls apart before eating them which is serial killer behavior.”

I consider that and think back to the last time I had sushi with Reed. Definitely didn’t take anything apart.

“I don’t do that anymore,” I tell him, legs swinging slightly.

“There are a few things you don’t do the same anymore,” he remarks, plucking a plate out of the cupboard and scooping my egg pancake into. “You used to like to dance. ”

“Really?” I pull my leg to the side when he reaches for the cutlery drawer beneath me. “I can’t remember the last time I danced.”

He locates a fork, shuts the drawer and faces me. “You haven’t.”

The fork cuts through the soft cloud of yellow. “How did I meet you? Do I have parents? Siblings? Are they looking for me?”

With all the confidence in the world, he wedges himself between my knees, forcing them wide to accommodate his hips.

“No,” he murmurs softly as he brings the first forkful to my lips. “No parents. You were in foster care.”

“Oh.” I open and let him in, but I chew without even tasting the food. “I guess that explains why no one came looking for me.”

His eyes lift to mine. “Wrong. I came. I never stopped looking for you and I never would. I was going to find you even if it took me my entire life.” The hand with the fork brushes my cheek lightly with the knuckles. “You will never get rid of me, Leila.”

It’s a threat and a promise, and I’m melting all over.

“Were you in foster care, too?”

He shakes his head and feeds me another triangle of egg. “You came to my house.”

“And we got together? Is that allowed? ”

He snorts. “No, but neither of us gave a shit.”

I study the hard, sharp lines of his face, take in the faint scar over the bridge of his nose. The one over his eyebrow. A thinner one across the right corner of his upper lip.

My gaze wanders to his chest shielded by tattoos and I wonder how many more are hidden where no one can see them.

“You loved me.”

It’s not a question. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he did.

He breaks off abruptly and drops his gaze. “More than anything.” He peers up at me. “Still fucking do.”

My heart skips in my chest. A clumsy stumble that startles my lungs. I can’t seem to catch my breath the longer he watches me. My skin burns in every place we’re touching and rises up through the rest of me.

“Did I love you?” Simple enough question, but the way his features harden, I regret it immediately.

“Only you can answer that.”