Page 53 of The Ruthless Note

I shuffle back and consider my escape plan, but it’s too late now. Dutch plants his arm on the locker above my head, causing his muscles to roll and contract. The tattoos that wrap around his solid shoulders to his wrists are even more amazing up close. The linework is impeccable. The art pristine. He’s hard muscles and perfect lines everywhere.

Pressure builds in my chest when he leans into me. This close, it’s almost impossible not to look at his barely-concealed junk. Heat pools beneath my skin and I know for a fact that my face is burning up like I have a fever.

Dutch’s stare trains on me, but mine slips down his thick neck, corded with muscles to his shoulders and down his chest.

“If you wanted to see me naked, you could’ve just asked,” Dutch taunts.

His tone is light, but I don’t for a second think he’s amused with me. There’s a sharp, steely undertone just beneath the words.

I tilt my head, innocent as can be. “Where are your clothes, Dutch?”

“I was just about to ask you that.” His tone turns harsh.

I shudder from the heat of his body and the tension between us. Somehow, the fact that hundreds of eyes are staring at this ridiculous exchange is only mildly piercing my brain.

The anger I felt when he chased me out of the theatre today has gone silent. My brain’s broken. And it’s Dutch’s hot body that’s scrambling the signals.

“Why would I have your clothes?” I ask in a soft, puzzled voice. Just because everyone’s listening, doesn’t mean everyone has to hear. “That would be immature of me.” I tilt my head up. “As immature as kissing someone and then calling them a whore.”

His chest heaves with anger and his eyes reflect it. A sudden clench of his jaw shows off the poetic symmetry of his face and it leaves me both breathless and pissed off.

“Do I look like someone you can mess with, Brahms?” Dutch bites out. A magnificent beast poised to destroy me.

I won’t let him succeed.

“Who said I did it? You have any proof?”

He grits his teeth.

“Although I must say,” I point my gaze at the speedo, “I’m a little disappointed.”

His eyes blaze a hole through me. “I bet if I checked under your skirt, I’d find out exactly what you think of me, Brahms.”

My chest tightens and I realize, without a doubt, that I want this smug bastard to die a thousand fiery deaths.

“Screw you, Dutch,” I spit roughly.

Disdain rings from his eyes and hatred taints the air between us, a twisted poison that twines around us both. But beneath the fierce animosity, something far more compelling lingers. A swirling tension. A pull that’s so pointed and precise, it manages to make even this heated moment of mutual contempt feel sexual.

Our heated breaths meet and mingle in the middle of our bodies. Dutch is close enough that I can see the battle inside him. The fight to have me, to conquer me and break me versus the fire of that illusivesomething.

Something more.

Something real.

Because, as much as I hate to admit it, there is a connection here. It’s overshadowed by a world-crushing loathing, but it’s there.

He snapped me out of my panic attack.

Some part of me trusts him.

And some part of him cared enough to save me from myself.

He’s a nightmare god standing on a sea of shadows, and yet he kept me from drowning. Twice. The first time in the Redwood pool and this morning, from a sea of ugly, twisted memories.

“What is going on here?” Principal Harris’ feeble voice rings through the air.

I stiffen and duck my head, trying to hide out before he catches sight of me.

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