Page 77 of The Darkest Note

“You really think I’m going to poison your drinks?”

He levels me a flat look.

I pretend to be offended even though I’d one hundred percent slip a laxative in if I had one.

Dutch stops me when I reach for the machine. “Youdoknow how to make coffee right?”

I cut him a sharp glance. “Yes. I used to make coffee for my mom all the time.”

“Used to?”

I stiffen and then I clamp my mouth shut.

He leans against the counter where I’m working, his eyes intent on me.

Squirming beneath his scrutiny, I snap at him. “Can you back off? I’m trying to make your stupid coffee.”

“Is your mom a touchy subject, Cadence?”

His use of my actual name takes me aback. I blink rapidly, fighting the unease in my chest with the only weapon I have—anger.

“Tell you what,” I lean in to him, my eyebrows lowering, “I’ll tell you about my mom if you tell me why I need to look for that redhead.”

Flames burst to life in his eyes and though I didn’t get to see the disappointment and annoyance kick in when I stood him up on Saturday, this is the next best thing.

His jaw clenches. “You don’t need to ask questions. Just do as you’re told.”

“Are you embarrassed, Dutch? Is there another girl out there who sees you for the despicable human being you really are?”

The flames in his eyes turn to hellfire. It’s almost alarming the way I feed off of his fury. It’s like the part of me that’s broken and numb comes alive when I push his buttons. And maybe that’s what happens for him too. The shards in me push into his soft places and make him more monster than man.

His nostrils flare and we stare each other down. I don’t shift away as usual. My chest is a whirlwind of emotions. Dutch cracked open that drawer marked ‘mom’. It’s one I always keep closed for good reason.

The heady mixture of anger and hurt is a tumultuous combination.

Taunting him, I ease closer. “What did she do, Dutch? Did she take off with your car? Or your wallet? Or maybe your black hole of a heart?”

His lips are thinning out and steam is rising from his preppy shirt. Alarm bells go off in my head, screaming bloody murder.

I keep going because, apparently, I love poking angry lions. “Or,” my chest brushes his, “did she find out that you’re a scared little boy who plays games and trashes lockers instead of having a conversation about what the hell he really wants.”

The space between us is suddenly eliminated. Calloused hands slam against either side of me, trapping me in place. I choke on my own breath, the heat in my heart sweeping down to touch my fingers, stomach and all the way to my toes.

I must be disturbed because I don’t hate the way Dutch’s hard, sculpted body feels against mine. And I don’t hate the way he smells either—like sandalwood and sunshine and something dark. Like angsty music.

I breathe in, remembering the taste of him. The explosion of cinnamon. The softness of his hair on the back of my hand. The grunt he made when I raked his scalp.

I want his pain.

But Ineedthat grunt again. Need it more than I can say.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but a twisted side is ready to come out and play. It grows stronger the more Dutch glares.

Because the truth is that Dutch Cross owns everything in Redwood Prep, but he can’t ever own me. Not the ‘me’ he really wants. And it’s such a power trip that I’m practically tripping out of my skin.

The amber hues of his eyes are like tiny sunbursts, taking on an almost supernatural glimmer. An angry slant to his hot, full lips, he stares me down.

Heat burns in the sliver of space between us, making me sweat. I refuse to touch him, refuse to be the first to give in to the wickedly hot tension simmering between us. Even though I’m throbbing with lust and desire, I will not be the first to cave.

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