Page 15 of Ruthless Creatures
My bubble of anger deflates.
“Okay. Thanks. You can just leave it on the dresser.”
When he doesn’t move and only stands there staring at me, I fold my arms over my chest and stare right back.
After a moment of blistering awkwardness, Kage flicks a dismissive hand at my dress. “It doesn’t suit you.”
I feel my eyes bulging but don’t care.“Excuse me?”
“Too fussy.”
He’s lucky I’m not wearing the veil, because I’d wrap it around his neck and strangle him with it.
“For future reference, if you see a woman wearing a wedding gown, the only acceptable thing to tell her is that she looks beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” comes the hard reply. “But it has nothing to do with that fussy fucking dress.”
After that, he snaps his jaw shut. I get the distinct feeling he’s regretting his words.
Then he stomps over to the dresser, tosses the box on top, and stomps out, leaving me open-mouthed in shock, my heart palpitating.
When the front door slams shut, I’m still standing there trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
A few moments later, I hear an odd noise. It’s a repetitive sound, a muffledwhump whump whumplike someone’s beating out a dirty rug with a broom. I go to the window and look out, trying to identify where the sound is coming from.
That’s when I spot him.
The street I live on is sloped, climbing several feet from one lot to the next. The elevation allows for a view into the neighboring yard, so that from where I’m standing, I can see over the fence of the house next door. I also have a clear view of the living room window.
The drapes are usually drawn, but now they’re open.
In the middle of the room is a punching bag hanging from a heavy metal frame, the kind boxers use to train on. It appears to be the only furniture.
Throwing vicious punches at the bag is a bare-fisted Kage.
He’s taken off his shirt. I stand frozen to the spot, watching him hit the bag over and over, watching him jab and dance, watching all the muscles of his upper body ripple.
Watching his tattoos move and flex with every blow.
He’s covered in them, chest and back and all down both arms. Only his abs are bare of ink, a fact I’m grateful for, because it allows a clear view of his taut, muscled belly.
That he works out religiously is obvious. He’s in incredible physical shape. Also obvious is that he’s in a rage about something and is taking it out on that poor piece of gym equipment.
Unless something happened in the sixty seconds since he walked out my door, whatever he’s enraged about has to do with me.
He throws one final punch at the bag, then steps back and lets out a roar of frustration. He stands there, chest heaving, flexing his hands open and closed, until he happens to turn and glance at the window.
Our eyes lock.
I’ve never seen a look like his. There’s so much darkness in his eyes, it’s frightening.
I suck in a breath and take an involuntary step back. My hand rises to my throat. We stay like that—gazes locked, neither of us moving—until he breaks the spell by stalking over to the window and yanking the draperies shut.
When Sloane arrives twenty minutes later, I’m still rooted to the same spot, staring at Kage’s blank living room window, listening to thewhump whump whumpof his punishing fists.
FIVE
NAT
