Page 86 of Ruthless Creatures

My boyfriend is the acting head of an international criminal syndicate.

My mother would be so proud.

My phone beeps, indicating another incoming call. When I look to see who it is, my heart starts to pound. I tell Sloane I’ll have to call her back.

Then I click over to Kage.

TWENTY

NAT

“Kage!”

“Good morning. I left you a cell phone in the drawer under the microwave in the kitchen. Go get it.”

For some strange reason, hearing his voice makes me emotional. Probably because of my history with disappearing men.

Once you’ve had one of them go permanently missing on you, even an unannounced trip to the restroom by the next guy is cause for a panic attack.

Hyperventilating, I grip the phone. “Where are you? Are you all right? Are you coming back? The police were here—”

“Natalie.Get. The. Phone.”

I can tell from his tone that he’s in no mood for a Q&A. So I head over to the drawer he said the phone was in. Sure enough, there it is.

It’s a sleek black thing, folded in half to the size of a credit card. When I flip it open, the screen lights up.

“What’s the password?”

“Your mother’s birthday.”

That makes me pause. “How do you know my mother’s birthday?”

“I know everything about you.”

“That’s not possible.”

Without hesitation, he starts to tick off a list.

“Your favorite color is indigo blue. Your favorite song is ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Your favorite food is your mother’s roast chicken. You’re a Pisces, don’t eat nearly enough vegetables, and donate far too much of your meager teacher’s salary to animal rescue charities. Your first car was a 1986 Mustang convertible. Stick shift. Onyx black. Your father bought it used for you on your sixteenth birthday. The transmission went out three months later.”

Where did he get all this information? Social media? Background checks?

The FBI?

When I stay silent, too stunned to answer, he says gently, “I told you I’ve obsessed over you. Did you think that meant writing your name over and over in a notepad and drawing little hearts around it?”

“Please hold. I’m feeling queasy.”

He ignores me. “I’m going to hang up and call you on the other phone. It’s untraceable. Use it from now on, and destroy yours. Smash it with a hammer and throw the pieces into different trash bins around town.”

I’m still trying to recover my equilibrium, but I manage to ask, “Is that really necessary?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Within seconds, the other phone rings.

I pick it up and say, “Please don’t tell me I have to leave the country. I like it here.”