Page 66 of The Ruthless Note

He tugs me sharply and I go stumbling into his chest. I’m surprised to feel his heart pick up speed when I press against him.

I’m even more surprised that there’s not really a big, black void where his heart should be.

After righting myself using his body, I quickly remove my hands. But Dutch captures my wrist again, preventing me from walking away.

Being trapped in his clutches in front of everyone feels like another way to put me down. Is he trying to embarrass me again? Teach me another one of his stupid lessons? Prove to everyone that I’m powerless and weak? That he can break me however he wants?

Taking a step back, I snarl at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

His face remains expressionless. Blank. Cold. He doesn't care what I have to say. He doesn't care about anything but making sure I’m as miserable as possible.

In that moment, I wish I’d never gotten involved with the prince of Redwood. Whether it was as myself or as my alter ego, I should have found a way—any way—to stay out of his sight from the start.

“Dutch,” Sol says.

“We're leaving. Now.” Dutch talks over his friend.

I dig my heels into the grass and ignore the way his brows crash low over his stormy eyes.

He’s really not going to stop.

I rise to my full height and declare in a strong voice, “Dutch, if you don’t drop this hand, I swear I’m going to—gah!”

Dutch bends his knee and barrels me up over his shoulder. I’m airborne for one second. Then the familiar sensation of crashing on top of his muscular body shocks the breath out of my lungs.

“Dutch, put me down right now!” I pound his chest.

My cries go unheard.

My fists don’t move him.

I flail my arms, my temperature spiking to levels that are dangerous to my health.

Paris’s jaw drops. Her eyes sharpen on me when Dutch brushes past her. That look is blistering. It’s as if, despite all the ways that Dutch has tormented me and rejected her,I’msomehow still at fault.

The crowd parts for Dutch. No one's saying a word, but their phones collect all the evidence of him ruthlessly carrying me away as if I'm nothing but a sack of potatoes.

I don't struggle. Instead, I conserve my energy and wait for Dutch to loosen his grip.

When we're far away from the party, heading towards the street, his hold on me slackens. I pounce on the opportunity to get him back.

Grabbing his arm, I bend the limb backward and use his own weight against him. Dutch bellows out, his free hand drawing over the back of my shirt and yanking at my skirt to try and flick me off.

I hold on like a bucking bull and lean harder into the awkward angle until he starts bending at the knees. That's when his grip on me loosens completely.

I scramble to the ground and glare at him.

He shakes out his hand, his face a storm of fury. “What the hell was that? Were you trying to break my arm?”

“You don’t need that arm anyway. Snakes like you only need to crawl on the ground!”

I don’t care that I’m yelling. I don’t care that this is a quiet neighborhood and that our voices are carrying into the million-dollar mansions with the fancy lawns and golden porch lights.

There’s a fire burning inside me. It’s growing more and more volatile and demands to rain downwrathon Dutch’s stubborn, egotistical, ruthless head.

“I told you that the next time you came at me you'd regret it,” I snap. “You’re lucky I had mercy on you. I could have done that in front of all your friends and made you look like the punk that you are. You're welcome!”

Dutch looks shocked and a little turned on.