Page 97 of Executing Malice
My head swims with all the extra information.
All the things I didn’t think myself capable of and yet, he’d been so proud telling me of my crimes. He looks at me like I hold his very soul in my hands.
But am I that person? Am I capable of setting a person’s property on fire? Do I enjoy chaos?
The answer, every single time is ... yes. I do. I hide it well. I keep it tucked under the rug, away from the shrewd eyes of Jefferson, but the truth is I don’t have patience. I don’t have the grace to turn the other cheek. Ninety percent of my inner thoughts are how I would like to stab someone in the eye with a pen or cut their tires. The sheer amount of violence I feel all the time...
I thought it was normal. I thought everyone had the occasional dark thought when a customer is being exceptionally stupid, but maybe there is something wrong with me because my thoughts aren’t little voices wishing them to leave. Mine urge me to grab them by the back of the head and smack their face on my counter.
Maybe I need help.
Maybe I should look into getting a therapist. Get myself admitted. This shouldn’t feel right.
I run a shaky hand over my face and back through my hair. In the dim light of the bank washroom, my uncertain gaze catches on my reflection over the sink. I stare long and hard at the face I’ve stared at a million times over the years and still not recognizing it.
Maybe even less now.
The minor things I’d begun to learn about myself scatter out of my hand to tumble into nonexistence because this Leila staring at me is still a stranger. Even after all this time.
A dry sob leaves my chest and I slump against the counter. My palms dig along the edges as I fight to get keep my shit together. Falling apart doesn’t help.
I lift my head again and blink harder at my reflection, willing my brain to remembersomething. Anything. A crumb of memory.
But only silence echoes between my ears.
Resigned, I push away and fix my attention on the bag Dante gave me. It sits on the counter, practically weightless, but heavy with implication.
I haven’t looked inside yet, but he shoved it into my hands with a firm,“Put these on. No panties.”
I’m not in the mood for any more games, but I reach inside and withdraw the short, black, button-up dress I bought a million years ago during a trip with Mom to Pinecrest. It had been on a mannequin in a shop window, and I made the mistake of gasping and pointing at it, saying,“Oh my gosh, that is so cute!”
Mom pulled me inside and next thing I knew, I was walking out with a dress I am not nearly bold enough to wear in public.
It’s way too short. Short enough that if I drop something, it forever belongs to the floor because bending down is a hard no. But it’s made even shorter by the slits on either side that bare way more leg than I have ever shown or feel comfortable showing. The neckline dips in a wide, dangerous V that frames my breasts before a tiny row of buttons keeps it all together.
Where the hell had he even found this? I chucked it somewhere towards the back of my closet where I’d hoped it would disintegrate and become moth food. But it’s as bright and flowy as the day Mom shoved it into my hands.
I could refuse.
I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to listen to peer pressure. But I know if I go out there without it, he’ll only force me into it, and it’s already been a long ass day.
I strip out of my jeans and blouse and drag the dress down over my head. It takes some wiggling to properly fit all mycurves into the confines. I have to double check my ass to make sure nothing is spilling out.
It’s not bad.
Definitely daring, a lot out of my comfort zone, but I do like the way it strains across my chest and fills out around my hips even though I know I’m about to become the talk of the town the second I step out, especially with the silver stilettos he’d included in the bag.
Got to give it to him. The man has good taste.
Well, in for a dollar, in for a pound, I ruffle my hands through my hair, giving the strands volume. I plump my tits and drag my panties off. My old clothes are dropped into the bag and I take a step back to admire what little I can see in the mirror.
I don’t know what his plans are, but if this doesn’t get me laid, I might have to tie him down and fuck him myself.
Amused, I yank open the door and stalk across the polished floor. My five-inch heels crack against marble, sounding sexy and dangerous echoing off the walls as I gather up my things and head for the door.
Any doubt I may have had, any sprinkling of insecurities, vanishes the second Dante’s head comes up and his gaze lands on me.
The man freezes.
