Page 166 of The Ruthless Note

My throat feels like it’s being squeezed so tight, I might explode.

But I keep moving forward.

Back against the wall, I push my head out a little so I can peer into the kitchen.

There is someone in my apartment.

But it’s not the person I expect.

Dutch Cross is sitting around my dining room table, casually eating a sandwich. His long, slender fingers swipe at a spot of ketchup against his mouth and I watch, my insides twisting, as he sucks the ketchup off his thumb.

My legs start going weak and I grip the wall even tighter. How did he get in here?

“Cadey,” Dutch’s voice has a dark thread running beneath it, “would you like a sandwich?”

My heart is currently climbing all the way up my esophagus, but I don’t let it show. Pulling on my armor of indifference, I move into Dutch’s line of sight.

He’s wearing a hoodie, sneakers and jeans. His big body is curled in the chair, lounging as if he’s on vacation. But those eyes tell a different story. When he lifts them to my face, a powerful, tingling sensation sweeps over me.

I approach him cautiously, my head held high. “How did you get in here?”

He simply watches me, not saying anything.

I march right up to the table. “What do you want, Dutch?”

“I considered letting you go.” He sets the sandwich down and wipes his fingers against a napkin. Confident and cold. “But I saw my guitar in pieces and realized that it’s impossible.” He sighs and looks up at the ceiling with those magical honey eyes of his. “You just cemented your place, Brahms.”

“Get the hell out of my house!” I hiss, my fingers tightening around the knife.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and watches me with an appreciative glint in his amber eyes. I’m keenly aware of my limp hair, over-sized T-shirt and the tights that barely cover anything.

Dutch’s eyes shift from the color of sun-soaked autumn leaves to dark shadows. “I was hoping you’d come out of the shower in a towel. Bummer.”

My nostrils flare.

My heart is about to fly out of my chest.

At that moment, I know why Dutch is here.

I know why he’s not making a mess of my house or threatening me or even calling the cops on me.

It’s tonight.

He’s taking me tonight.

“Really, Cadey, don’t look so scared.” He tilts his head and studies the knife. “What are you going to do with that?”

He’s right. I’m not going to stab him. He’s not the one I want to hurt the most tonight anyway.

I release the knife and it clatters to the ground next to my bare feet.

The tension in the air thickens and it, somehow, feels more dangerous. As if I’d actually gone and tried to stab him.

I grit my teeth. “Why didn’t you just tell me that you weren’t the one who set the fire?”

Dutch’s eyes go flat even as he flashes a sharp, dangerous smile. He leans forward on my dining room chair. It might as well be a throne of gold the way he lounges on it.

Confidence screams from his skin, like he owns everything and everyone in the universe. Like I should be grateful that he’s asking when he could simply take by force.