Page 47 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

“That doesn’t explain the time loss,” he grumbles. “My system is ironclad. Kids wouldn’t be able to tamper with it.”

I dismiss the allegations. “It could be downtime when then turn the systems off for maintenance. I don’t have a computer so I can’t guarantee that, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing diabolical. What’s in the box?”

Change of topic working, Dante spins in his chair and pushes to his feet with the same momentum. “Step away.”

I get closer.

“Is it my surprise?”

He’s on me before I can take another step. “Let’s go, little demon. ”

I squeak as I’m unceremoniously plucked up and tossed over his shoulder. Man doesn’t even break stride as he stomps to the hatch and starts bringing us down like I weigh nothing.

At the bottom, he drops me down on my feet but keeps me braced with an arm hooked around my middle.

“I’ll make you wait until next year if you keep being a brat,” he warns. “And brats won’t get woken up with a tongue in their pussy.”

I do love his tongue and waking up to it deep inside me. I don’t like waiting. The conflicting feelings have me wanting to stomp my foot like a child, but I refrain with a grudging, “Fine.”

I follow him back to the kitchen and my pans of pumpkin guts. He returns to his drill and his creations.

We work to finish our tasks. I get my seeds washed, dried and seasoned before putting them on a clean tray and preheating the oven.

Dante stacks his pumpkins in a tower of three, each one hollowed and carved with dozens of tiny holes like constellations scattered across an orange sky.

But the moment the flame catches, I understand his method.

I see his thought process. I get to witness the lights fracture through the perforations and scatter across the walls, a galaxy of shifting stars.

Each pumpkin holds its own pattern, so the trio casts a restless choreography of shadows, a living dance of stars.

“It’s so pretty!” I gasp, hands flying up my mouth.

His response is to capture my wrist and drag me to him. In the same motion, he spins me under his arm, eliciting a stream of giggles before I’m tugged into his chest.

“We were never allowed to have these moments,” he murmurs, holding me close as we sway to music only he can hear.

“I stole you a pumpkin from the grocery store once. Snuck it home to our room. We sat in our pajamas with newspaper across the floor. The knives were shitty, but we carved the ugliest smile on its face.”

Lost in his story, I lean into him, resting my head against the steady patter of his heart, mesmerized by his low murmurs. “What did we do with it?”

His free hand drifts down to brush a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Everett caught us. He stomped it into a million pieces. Never even got a chance to put a candle inside.”

My head jerks up. “What a piece of shit. Why would he do that?”

Dante shrugs. “He hated me. Hated that I had you.” His thumb skims along my jaw to my chin. “You were the one thing he could never have, and it drove him crazy. ”

Angry for the children we used to be, I can’t find it in my heart to feel bad for that motherfucker. I pray wherever he is, his dick is a black husk of rotted flesh.

“Well, why would I want to be with someone like that?”

Dante gives a low chuckle. “No one ever said no to Everett or his friends.”

I scoff. “He had friends? No doubt other assholes just like him.”

“Basically. He always knew how to find the worst people. It was like a smell. They were all drawn to each other. The worst was this kid named Angel. He only had a few months before turning eighteen and opting out of the system. He was in some gang and thought he was tough. He and Everett clicked. It was ... it was a really bad time.”

The skin beneath my palm radiates with a heat that burns. It singes when I press closer like I can somehow change the outcome.

“What happened?’

His story pauses when the oven beeps, signaling that the preheat is done. I break away just long enough to hurry over and slide the sheets of pumpkin seeds across the rack. I set the timer and hurry back into his arms.

“Everett was always bad on his own. He enjoyed causing pain, but with Angel, he found his calling. The two of them together became a nightmare for everyone under that roof. My parents didn’t care as long as the checks came in and they weren’t being bothered.

Everett and Angel learned quickly how to torment the younger kids to not leave marks.

No evidence. It was purely psychological torture.

Angel set his eyes on you. Like with Everett, you became the prize in their fucked-up games. ”

I shudder and press closer against his strength.

“We got into a lot of fights, them and me. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.

I didn’t trust them alone with you. Wouldn’t let them hurt you.

We spent a lot of time finding places to lie low at night.

Empty buildings, secluded doorways. We just had to keep our heads down for a few more months, then we could get our own place and get away from all of them.

“Thankfully, Angel aged out first. He was removed from the house and things seemed to work out in the end. Everett on his own was easy to deal with.”

I exhale into the hollow of his throat. “I’m sorry.” I tip my face back, nudging the underside of his chin with the end of my nose as I peer up into his eyes. “You had to deal with so much because of me.”

One big hand cradles the back of my skull, gripping me to him. “I’d do it again.”

I skim my lips lightly over his, relishing in the sweet taste of him before drawing back .

“Can I ask what happened to your parents? Your siblings? To Everett?”

Dante breaks our embrace. It’s done after a loving press of his lips between my eyes before drifting away to start cleaning up the pumpkin massacre splattered across the kitchen.

“I don’t know about my parents. After you went missing, Mom filed a report with the social worker and that was it.

No one looked for you. I left home to find you myself and never went back.

I’m sure they’re still alive somewhere. My siblings .

.. they probably stayed with my parents, or they ran off. I don’t know.”

I watch the flex and bunch of his back as he scrubs and stacks the dishes. His head stays down, face focused as he empties the remains into the compost and fills the sink with water.

Deep down, I know I should stop pushing, to let it go, but I find myself edging a step closer, too curious.

“I know you said Everett wasn’t the one who took me, but are you sure?”

The hand rubbing the counter with a rag stills.

“It wasn’t.”

I take another step. “How can you be sure?”

The silence extends to a full heartbeat. Then another. It’s a palpable chill wafting through the space .

“It wasn’t,” he repeats low, so low I nearly don’t hear him.

I relent and let it go. I say nothing as I join him putting the kitchen back in order.

I stand at his shoulder while we wash and rinse the dishes, neither of us saying a word.

It’s impossible not to feel the coiling tension tightening his muscles, working up in his jaw.

Whatever is on his mind has his knuckles white around the dishrag.

He’s scrubbing like he’s trying to win a war.

Tentatively, not because I’m scared that he might strike me, but because he seems so wound tight, I touch his bicep. I brush my fingertips along the corded muscles bunching and shifting with every jerk and pull of his arm.

The touch jerks his head in my direction. It fixes me with the dark depths of his eyes pinning to mine.

I force a smile. “Let’s get dressed. We’ll finish with the seeds, but afterwards, I want to show you Halloween in Jefferson.”

He makes no argument, doesn’t seem pleased or upset. I get a nod before he turns back to the dishes.

“You go ahead and get ready. I’ll finish this.”

I’m tempted to tell him to leave it. We can do it when we get back, but he needs this. Needs to see the task completed. So, I plant a kiss to the spot I touched before leaving him to it.

It’s perfect Halloween weather. That precarious balance between cool and warm where you can still get away with wearing a light skirt without freezing. I choose a floral dress with full sleeves and a low neckline — not too low. I add my flats and brush my hair.

I’m running a gloss over my lips when Dante steps onto the threshold of my bedroom and leans into the doorframe. His arms fold over the top he must have dragged on. His sweats are replaced by his favorite brand of cargos.

Oh, what this man does to me needs to be studied.

There’s something inherently abnormal about being this devastated over a man. But the way he fills the room without even stepping into it, the way his eyes have the power to paralyze every thought process has my belly doing flips.

“Love you, Leila.”

And that.

The way he just says it. No hesitation. No doubt. A simple and irrefutable fact that washes over me like the sweet kiss of cool water on a hot day.

I love you, too.

It’s right there. Right on my tongue.

Goddamn it! Why can’t I just say it?

I set my gloss down and face him.

Just say it. Just spit it out.

But it clings to my tongue, refusing to budge .

I’m saved when he puts out a hand for me to take. “Come on, little demon. Show me Jefferson.”

Relieved for the distraction, I hurry over and accept his long fingers.

We take my car.

Dante isn’t happy with the decision, but he’s already pissed off enough of the town and I want people to be in an accepting mood when I introduce him.

With my hand nestled in his, I start the tour at the heart of Jefferson. The very spot it all began in 1812 when Elias Ferguson planted his flag and named the land Jefferson after his late grandfather.