Page 47 of Executing Malice
I get about three feet when I’m captured by a single arm hooked around my waist. It yanks me back into all those muscles and heat.
“Are you offering?” he drawls thickly into my ear.
Despite my annoyance with him, I giggle.
Giggle.
The sound is so ridiculous I want to die of shame, but his fingers are creeping around the hem of my sweater. Slipping beneath the soft wool to glide along the elastic of my skirt.
“We can go back. I’ll bend you over and make you take my cock in your ass.”
The appendage in question is rock hard, wedged between us. It burns through both sets of clothes to scorch my lower back.
“I’m ... I’m at work,” I stammer. “If we’re caught—”
“I’ll marry you,” he offers without missing a beat. “No shotgun required.”
My head jerks up and I’m caught in the plastic dividing us. Keeping me from seeing his seriousness because this guy is too much. He’s moving too quickly and all wrong. Scary bit of all, I don’t think he’s joking.
“What’s...?” I stop myself from asking what’s wrong with him. “You don’t know me.”
“Wrong.” His arm tightens around me even though I haven’t moved. “I know everything about you, Leila.”
I find myself turning in his hold, placing myself face to face with my stalker. “I don’t know you. I haven’t even seen your face. You’re talking about babies and ... and marriage. You can’t be serious.”
“You have no idea how serious I am.” One big, gloved hand cups the back of my skull and pulls me closer. “I’m keeping you. Even if I have to kidnap you, lock you up and keep you until you change your mind. Even if you run. Even if you try to kill me. I will never let you go again.”
I wait for fear.
I wait for the bells to warn me I’m in danger.
Everything he just said is terrifying. Psychopathic behavior. It’s the kind of energy women get warned to run from.
Why aren’t I running?
Why can’t I pull away?
There isn’t a cell in my body willing to detach from him.
“You’re crazy,” is the best my brain can manage, apparently.
His shoulders twitch with his low chuckle. “No. I’m worse.”
I swallow thickly. “What’s worse?”
“Yours,” he answers smoothly. “I’m your monster.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
His fingers tighten in my hair. “Yes. I’m going to break and bleed you. I’m going to make you cry and beg. And you will thank me when I put you together again.”
God, he really is crazy. Crazy and dangerous. But honestly, I don’t know if that makes it better. It seems to, because I’m still making no move to get away from him.
Maybe it’s a trauma response.
Maybe I’m so desperate for love and human connection that this is acceptable in my mind. It definitely needs a deeper investigation, but he’s pulling the ribbon from my hair.
The strip of crimson releases with a hiss, unraveling my braid. The strands tumble around my shoulders in twisted coils. Without a word, it’s stuffed into his pocket.
