Where's Molly(28)

He bends at the knees, lowering himself until I’m peering down at him with an incredulous stare.

“I’ve been dying to know who you are, Molly. Is that so wrong?”

Is he fucking with me? It’s incredibly wrong. It’s literally the worst thing he could ask me for. To know me? That would be willingly inviting him into my life, and I’ve made damn sure to turn my insides into a crowded room, with no space for anyone.

“Yes,” I bite. “You know what my pussy feels like wrapped around you. That’s more than most could say. At least, those who are still alive.”

He hums, and a darkness passes over his green eyes, turning them into a shadowy, dreary forest. “So, you’re telling me that there are others out there who have this knowledge and are still breathing?”

A few months ago, after finally feeling ready to face them after all these years, I had asked Legion to investigate the men in that house and see if any were still alive. After researching, he'd said all of them were dead. Except one.

Kenny Mathers.

He’s very rich and well-protected. Unlike most buyers who came around only for the Culling, he frequented the house often.

I overheard Francesca telling Rocco that Kenny was interested in buying me specifically, which is why he couldn’t seem to stay away. From the house, and from me.

His money and elitism have kept him safe all these years, allowing him to go off-grid altogether. He hasn’t been seen in the public eye since not long after I escaped.

Admittedly, I hadn’t been ready to face him, though I did make Legion aware of who he was and what he did. If my boss has done anything about it, I’m not sure. I’ve been too chickenshit to ask .

“Only one that I know of, but who even knows if that's still the case. Regardless, don't kill anyone on my behalf. Fucking me a few times doesn't make you my hero.”

He cocks his head, appearing unfazed by my demand. “What’s his name?”

I sigh. “Why does it matter?”

His expression is serious, not an iota of amusement remaining in his stare.

“I want to be the only man on this entire fucking planet that knows what you feel like. And if I’m sharing this knowledge with a single soul still walking this earth, then I will be removing them from it.”

I can only blink at him, speechless for a few beats. Despite that, my stomach is a cesspool of restless butterflies, and I feel my heart beginning to soften.

His words aren’t terrifying—but my reaction is.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I could be.”

“You’re not killing anyone on my behalf.”

“I will.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this, Cage.”

“Then don’t.”

I sigh again, my shoulders slumping. I’m emotionally spent for the night, and I have no energy to convince him to keep his murdering hands to himself.

The prospect of him killing the remaining man from Francesca’s house doesn’t bother me—but his reasoning does. I don’t want him to do it for me. Because he harbors any type of emotion for me. I’d rather he just snuff him out from the planet for being a monster and leave it at that.

“What is it you want from me?” I groan, sliding my hand down my face in exasperation.

“As many pieces as you’re willing to give for the night.”

I drop my hand and gape at him blankly, but he only waits patiently, gazing up at me.

“I just want to know about you. That's all. I'll tell you anything you want to know, too.”

I twist my lips, feeling myself relent. Mostly because I'm undeniably curious about Cage, too. I spent many lone nights in Alaska wondering about the man who completely obliterated my world with so much ease. What bothered me most was that I missed him. How could I miss someone I don't even know?

I'm hoping that if I give him what he wants, he’ll find something entirely unlikable and want to go home. Then, I can finally go to bed. Alone.

I can't afford my world being decimated again, and this time, I won't have to miss him.

“My favorite name in the world is Layla.”

My throat tightens, and I curse myself for saying her name. It’s impossible to think about her without feeling like my heart is being pushed through a woodchipper. I should’ve given him something impersonal. Like my favorite color.

He nods slowly, and the tiniest of grins curls one side of his lips upward. God, that look is lethal. I hate it.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yep,” I croak, then clear my throat, a pathetic attempt to cover the emotion clogging my windpipe .

“My favorite flower is a tiger lily,” he tells me. Hesitantly, I meet his gaze again, but this time, I see shadows within them. “My mother was a single mom, and my father died before I was born. Growing up, she would buy herself tiger lilies every Saturday at the farmers’ market. She said she didn’t need a man because she could get herself anything she wanted. When I got my first paycheck, that was the first thing I bought her. I told her she may not need a man to buy them for her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve it.”

“Let me guess—you never stopped buying them for her,” I say, a smile involuntarily curling my lips.

He grins, and my heart turns into putty. “Still do.”