Page 67 of The Ruthless Note

I don’t care anymore.

He’s a whacko.

And I’m even more of a whacko for feeling electricity sweep over my skin when he moves nearer and runs his fingers gently over my hair.

Damn. He’s infuriating and confusing as hell.

I just want to get away from all this.

Whirling around, I take off down the street. Persistent footsteps echo behind me. I quicken my pace, hoping he’ll give up.

He doesn’t.

I put distance between us.

But Dutch still doesn’t turn back.

I glance over my shoulder and glare at him. “What are you doing?”

He says nothing.

Moved by an anger that makes me feel both bold and invincible—a dangerous combination—I storm back to him. “What do youwant,Dutch? Just say it now so we can get it over with and you can leave me alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m making sure you get home safe,” he says grumpily.

There’s a pulse in my throat and I’m wondering if my heart found a way to climb up there.

Is he joking with me?

Dutch stares straight ahead as if he’s just as angry as I am.

I breathe in deeply and damn, if I don’t breathehimin along with the scent of the stars. He’s wearing that cologne, the one he wore the night he played the piano for me.

The night his hands skated over the keys and then made their way under my skirt.

The night he kicked me out of Redwood.

I’m still attracted to him. With his blond hair, sharp face, and all those taut muscles, I’d be blind if I wasn’t drawn the way hundreds of girls are. But it doesn’t mean I have to be stupid.

Dutch spent weeks trying to drain the life out of me and take the one good thing, the first good thing, that ever happened to me and Vi.

I can’t let this ‘valiant hero’ act fool me.

Maybe he’s just biding his time to see where I live so he can torment me at home.

“This is called stalking, you know,” I snarl when he follows me down the lane. “I don’t want you to know where my house is.”

“You think I don’t know where you live?” His eyes slice through mine, cutting my confidence in half. “I read your information in the Redwood files.”

“You’ve read my files?”

Ink crawls out from under his shirt sleeve and flex along with his bicep when he folds his arms over his chest.

“What did you read?” I demand, my chest squeezing tight.

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