I don't answer, too intent on staring at her to see if my hunch is right.
She sighs, and finally turns to look at me, stealing my breath. Even beneath the large protective glasses, I recognize her immediately. There's no mistaking that fucking scar.
She has big emerald green eyes, a gap below her irises that's always given her a naturally seductive stare. And right below the right one is a permanent white, slightly raised bite mark. A full mouth of teeth scarred into her olive skin. How she got it—I still don't know. But it's evident it's not a pretty story.
She's older but doesn't look much different, only more mature. However, the light brown freckles that are smattered across her cheeks and the button nose soften her features. Nine years ago, I told myself I'd count them, but I never got the chance to finish.
I intend to remedy that.
Her eyes widen, recognition flashing within them. She stumbles back, dropping the hair clippers on the table before bumping into it, evoking a god-awful sound from the metal legs grinding against the floor. Even now, she still resembles a frightened cat.
“Cage? What are you doing here?” she snaps, then urgently peers around me as if I were hiding a whole other person up my ass.
“Making a drop,” I answer slowly, my brow pinching with confusion. “You’re supposed to be living in Alaska. I put you in Alaska.” My tone is accusatory, but I’m pissed.
The lengths I go through to make people disappear are fucking tedious as hell. It feels like a slap in the face to have a person I killed standing right in front of me—not in Alaska.
That's not why you're angry.
The intrusive voice in my head can go fuck itself.
She glances around nervously. “I didn’t like it there.”
The muscle in my jaw tics. “What are you doing here, Molly?”
She rears back, as if I backhanded her across the cheek.
“That’s not my name anymore.”
“This isn’t supposed to be your state of residence either, yet here we are.”
She narrows her eyes, fire unleashing within the depths of her irises. “Why do you care? I hired you for a job. You did the job. What I do is no longer your concern.”
She’s right.
If any other client I made disappear were to materialize in front of me, I’d tell them it’ll cost triple to make them disappear a second time. But whatever happens to them in the meantime isn’t my fucking problem .
Except, Molly isn’t like the other clients I’ve had.
Mainly because I fucked her thoroughly before I gave her a brand-new identity. Then, she disappeared on me—just like she was supposed to.
And it fucking enraged me.
Now, she stares at me like a tiny rabbit caught in a trap, squealing to be freed.
She escaped me once, and I let her.
I won’t allow it a second time.
Molly
Present
2022
I’m going to kill Legion.
He never told me Cage was delivering the bodies. I didn’t even think to ask who was coming when I was informed Eli was shot and would have a temporary replacement. I trust Legion implicitly, so I wasn’t concerned with their identity. Especially because I know how to protect myself regardless of who it is.
I’ve no idea if Legion even knows anything about the night I spent with Cage—and maybe he doesn’t. But, fuck, he could’ve warned me.
“When did you come back?” Cage questions, his voice tight.
“Four years ago,” I answer automatically, though I'm not sure why. It's none of his business—I’m none of his business.
“Why?” he demands.
“Doesn 't matter why. You shouldn’t be here,” I mumble, nervous sweat dotting my hairline and coating my trembling palms. I shouldn’t be here. We both know that, even if he doesn’t know why.
Running from Francesca and Rocco was one of the many reasons I needed to escape Montana. Yet, I knew coming back here was the only thing that would save me from myself.
I tried to survive in Alaska, but only found myself dying.
At least here, I’d be living, even if I still feel dead inside.
Cage takes a step toward me, a savage expression mapped across his devastatingly beautiful face.
I forgot how tall he was. Towering over six-four, at least.
His hair hasn’t changed since I last saw him. Still buzzed short on the sides, the dark brown strands only slightly longer on top. Just long enough to run my hands through. I recall my tongue tracing his sharp jawline made out of steel and thick brows creased in bliss above his forest green eyes. And I’ll never forget those wide, full lips that kissed every inch of my skin, or the light stubble that sent chills down my spine every time I felt it brush against me. All features that my stare has worshiped for hours.
Letting him fuck me was one of many mistakes, but I wanted to feel what everyone else was feeling when they had sex—what normal people felt. I wanted sex to feel good.
I just never expected it to feel that good. And for unknown reasons, that's still more terrifying than being gang-raped by Rocco and his men.
He takes another step toward me. For the second time, I stumble back into the table where two corpses continue to rot .
“D-don’t,” I choke out, holding up my hand to stop him. As if it would.
He pauses, the gears in his head turning. I’ve no idea what he’s thinking, but in the short time I knew him, he wasn’t very susceptible to letting people inside his head.
“Feed the pigs, Molly,” he finally grits out, taking several steps back. I feel the constriction around my chest release with every inch that grows between us.
It's been nine years since I last saw him, though I recall all too well how hard he made it to breathe.
I clear my throat as if that's going to remove the anxiety clogging it. Then, I stiffly turn to the first corpse on the table.
A man who is well into his fifties, with a deeply receded hairline and gray hair. After some maneuvering, I manage to remove the articles of clothing from his body and toss them to the side. Then, I grab the hair clippers again and begin shaving his head.
All the while, Cage watches me silently.
Eli doesn't typically stick around after the deliveries. Not since the first time he watched my pigs eat. I'm tempted to tell Cage to leave, but whatever old attachment I had with him isn't entirely gone. Like removing a Band-Aid and being left with the residue. The wounds are healed, yet what was supposed to help close them remains.
“What did this guy do?” I ask, my voice strained.
“He was just acquitted of raping his fifteen-year-old grandson. Not enough evidence, the judge said. Despite the mountain of pictures of bruises around the kid’s neck that matched the guy’s handprints and the semen sample on the boy's shorts. ”
“Sounds like the judge should've been killed, too,” I mutter snidely, then grab my pliers and begin forcefully yanking out his teeth. When I'm finished, I drop them in the grinder on my table. With the press of a button, it grinds them down to powder, making them easy to dispose of later.
Next, I turn on the Sawzall and begin cutting into flesh. Crimson splatters onto my gloved hands, face, and chest. Behind me, I hear my pigs snorting loudly beneath the ear-piercing sound of the saw cutting through bone.
Now that they have a steady diet of human remains, they tend to get rowdy once they catch a whiff of blood. It used to freak me out, but then I decided that the predators they were eating were far worse than the beasts consuming them.
After I'm done, his arms, legs, and head are removed from his torso. I move the body parts out of the way, then sweep my arm across the table, wiping the excess blood onto the plastic-covered floor for easy cleanup later.
“And this one?” I ask tersely, breaking the tense silence while I remove the clothing from the second man. He appears well into his seventies, covered in liver spots.
“That's the judge.”
I purse my lips, feeling, rather than seeing, his amusement.
“Did you kill them?” I question, realizing that in the nine years I’ve been gone, a lot could have changed with Cage.