Page 12 of The Ruthless Note

“Dutch! I said…” She fights me even harder. “Where are we going?”

I don’t know.

Away from everyone.

Somewhere they won’t hear her scream.

My thoughts are a whir, shifting between hot, violent and cruel.

Cadence is beautiful and aggravating and way too calm after what she put me through. How do I wipe that anger and replace it with fear? How do I return the anguish she gave me?

I turn down another hallway and kick open the emergency exit door. Hauling her lying face into the empty stairwell, I throw her against the wall.

She slams hard and gasps.

“Redhead. Cadence. Any other alter egos I should know about?”

I expect her to cower, beg for mercy, apologize.

At the very least, I expect shock.

But she tilts her head back and laughs. “That’s why you’re doing this? Because you didn’t realize I was the same person in a wig and makeup?”

“Be very careful, Brahms. I’m not in a giving mood today.”

“When have you ever been giving?” she snarls. “You screwed with my grades to get me kicked out of Redwood. You destroyed Mr. Mulliez’s life and you did your best to destroy mine. Did you think for asecondthat I would see you as anything other than the monster you are?”

Each word hits me in the chest like bullets from a smoking gun. I want to wrap my fingers around her neck and choke her. Anything to stop her from pouring more salt on a gaping, pulsing wound.

“Do you know,” I press in and speak through gritted teeth, “how dangerously close I am to showing you what arealmonster looks like?”

Her eyes are dark enough to burn steel into molten silver. She doesn’t back down.

Damn it.

She doesn’t fear me enough.

Palming the back of her neck, I drag her head closer to me. Her dark hair is sticking to the sweat on her cheek. Her chest is heaving.

I slide a finger down to her collarbone and trace the delicate lines. “How many guys have you fooled in that red wig? Am I the first who hasn’t paid for the privilege of parting your pretty little legs while in costume?”

The calm leaves her expression real fast. She tries to slap me.

I grab her hands and bind them to my chest.

“Get out of my face,” she bites out.

I push her back to the wall and mold my body to hers. Looming over her, I whisper, “Why? Can’t handle the truth?”

Her warm breath showers my face. “You disgusting piece of scum.”

I laugh, low and threatening.

She puts up more of a fuss, desperately wiggling around to get out of my grip.

All that rubbing and unintentional gyrating is sending lightning strikes straight to my pants. I dig my fingers into her hips, hell-bent on increasing the pressure. Her body feels so good, ithurts.

“Stop. Fighting,” I warn.

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