Page 109 of Executing Malice
I start at the familiar voice behind me. I don’t even need to turn to know exactly who it is.
Reed Weir. The non-brother. In all his official glory. I swear, even his damn badge looks shinier somehow.
“Officer,” I mumble.
Hands set loosely on his hips, he ambles closer until there’s only a foot of space between us. I know an intimidation tactic when I see one, so I hold my ground.
“Nice pants,” he says, baffling me.
I glance down at them, then at him. “Thanks.”
“They look remarkably familiar.”
I know I’m staring at him like he’s lost his mind, but I’m beginning to think maybe he has.
My silence has him swaying the remaining step closer.
“You were in my sister’s bedroom yesterday morning.”
Temper prickling, I frown. “She’s not...” I stop myself. This is not the thing to fixate on. “That’s none of your business.”
“Wrong, asshole.” He’s so close his nose nearly bumps mine. The scent of his peppermint toothpaste tingles over my mouth. “You think I’m going to let you mess with her?”
“I’m going to marry her,” I tell him flatly, wishing he’d take a step back or kiss me already. Preferably the former.
Could have announced my plans to sacrifice Leila to my chipmunk gods for the way the man recoils, face morphing into one of abject horror.
“The hell you are.”
His outrage is nearly comical, if his hand hadn’t twitched in the direction of his holster.
“Leila isn’t your concern.”
“She is my sister,” he snaps again like that’s supposed to scare me into running. “You so much as breathe wrong around her and I’ll ... what’s your name?”
Obviously, he’s going to look into me. He’s going to dig up my name and only find the breadcrumbs I left behind after wiping my past clean. I’m not worried about it, except I don’t like people trying to pry into my life, a fact I’m going to need to get used to if we’re staying in Jefferson.
Fuck.
It’s fine. I’m doing this for Leila.
I open my mouth to tell him when his radio crackles to life with the sound of a woman’s tired voice.
“Reed, respond. Domestic disturbance on Ashford Lane. Officer requested.”
But he’s too busy staring at me like he’s debating whether or not to put me in cuffs just for existing. Unfortunately for him, the dispatcher is more insistent, calling his name and demanding he respond.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “This isn’t over. You hear me?”
I give him a mock salute. “Loud and clear.”
He hesitates just long enough to make me think he’s debating just arresting me on principle alone. His glower is personal and visceral. The kind that could curdle milk.
“This conversation isn’t over.”
I give a slow nod. “Well, you know where to find me.”
He bares his teeth. “You—”
