Page 113 of Executing Malice
“It wasn’t Everett.”
I frown at his certainty. “How can you be sure?”
He shakes his head. “Wasn’t him.”
I let it go.
I let the entire conversation die. The are other questions but asking them would only bring us back to his family and the place we were. So, I swallow them down and focus on the guy who spent nearly a decade looking for me.
“What if I was married with kids?” I ask.
Dante frowns like he’s deliberating the question. He reaches over and snatches up a fry. Bites into it. Chews. Swallows and answers casually, “Kill him.”
I blink. “You’d kill my husband?”
His eyes are dark, unforgiving pits. “He was never your husband, Leila. He was a placeholder. I’d kill him, fuck you over his dying body then again over his casket.”
My horror manifests into a hot flood of heat between my legs. My nipples tighten under the lace of my bra, and I have to bite my lip to keep from squirming in his lap.
“And my kids?”
He takes another fry. “I don’t hurt children. I would take care of them because they’re yours.” I start to shake my head, amused when he asks, “How would you feel if I was married?”
That kills my humor.
“Why would you get married? I lost my memory. What’s your excuse?”
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Maybe I stopped looking.”
My eyes narrow even as my temper prickles. “So, you gave up on us?”
Five fingers of restraint close into my jaw, firm and unyielding. “What would you do?”
My molars grind beneath his fingers as I glower into his knowing face.
“I would poison her. Slowly,” I spit out. “So you would have to watch her die in agony.”
His mouth twists up into a dark smirk and he murmurs, “Good girl,” before capturing my lips in a possessive attack.
I’m still frowning when he pulls back, my annoyance palpable.
“It’s not the same thing,” I grumble.
Dante chuckles faintly and brushes his lips over mine again. “Maybe, but at least you know why I would kill my placeholder.”
I don’t comment because I do. I get it. The thought of him with another woman is enough to make me forget I’m not a killer but easily could be because of him.
It does dawn on me that I’ve never been this way with another man. True, I’ve never given another man a chance beyond an experimental kiss, but none meant anything to me. If they moved on to other women, it was relief. Not murderous rage.
Not that I’m about to tell him that and feed his ego. Man already knows way too much about me.
Instead, I force myself to take a deep breath and let it go.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
His brows pull together in disbelief. “Turtle racing.”
I blink. “What?”
