Page 65 of The Ruthless Note

… to the wide shoulders…

… to the chiseled chin under a mouth that’s a hot slash of menace…

And finally landing on a pair of sharp amber eyes.

“I’ll take her home,” Dutch declares, his voice so poisonous it could peel the paint off a building.

Sol does not release my hand.

He stares into Dutch’s face, calm and cool. “Don’t worry about it. You can stay here and enjoy yourself.” Sol’s eyes move pointedly to Paris before shifting back to Dutch.

“I was getting tired of this place anyway.” Dutch's voice drops to a gravelly pitch. “Let her go, Sol.”

Both boys keep their hands around my arms. There’s a hint of defiance in Sol’s eyes.

Paris waddles up to Dutch. Her mermaid dress is dirty around the hems from where she dragged Christa into the dew-filled grass. Her eyes are shining with desperation.

She’s not even trying to hide how much she wants Dutch.

He’s her idol.

Her king.

Her everything.

I wish her luck. He’s a monster with glowing eyes, tats and poison running through his veins.

“Dutch, don't leave yet,” Paris pleads. Her voice trembles as if she knows it’s a long shot, but she can’t stop herself. “We're just getting started.”

Dutch doesn’t even spare her a glance.

Paris licks her lips nervously. Checking to see if everyone is still watching, she adjusts her tone to a less pleading one. “I promised I’d show you the boathouse.” She presses even closer to him. Nearly balancing her chin on his shoulder, she coos, “Don't let Christa ruin a good time.”

I watch it all with distaste. I really don’t care about what Paris and Dutch had planned to do in the boathouse. And Ireallydon’t care about why that annoys me.

I just want to get out of here.

“Dutch, let go of my hand.”

“I’ve got her, Dutch,” Sol says.

“See? Sol is going to take care of her,” Paris points out.

The pressure is mounting.

The silence is loud.

The entire party is watching and it’s only a matter of time before this entire drama goes up on Jinx’s app.

Vi is going to watch this.

Breeze might too.

It makes me even more frantic to move away from all these prying eyes and harsh judgements. “Dutch.”

“We’re leaving,” Dutch growls.

But he’s not talking to Paris.

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