Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(28)

That sends a jolt of electricity straight through me.

I want to pretend I don’t know what he means, but I do.

This beautiful, strange, magnetic man has just informed me that he’s thought about me as much as I’ve thought about him, that he tried to fight the urge to come back here from wherever he went, and that he thinks returning is a bad idea for whatever reason, but has resigned himself to it nonetheless.

We stare at each other until I regain my senses and invite him in out of the snow.

I close the door behind him. He makes the room feel crowded because he’s just so big. I wonder if he has to custom order all his furniture. And clothes. And condoms.

Best not to think about that now.

We face each other in my small foyer made even smaller by his bulk and simply look at each other.

Finally, he says, “Something smells like it’s burning.”

“That’s just me thinking. You never put your house on the market.”

“No.”

“You said you’d put it on the market within a few weeks after you left.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

His voice drops. “You happened.”

Surely my gulp must be audible. I will my hands to stop shaking, but they ignore me.

He says, “You never called.”

“My roof never leaked.”

The ghost of a smile lifts the corners of his lips. It vanishes when he says, “What happened with Deputy Dipshit?”

“We haven’t talked since that day you nearly ripped off his head.” I pause. “Did I ever thank you for that?”

“No thanks were necessary. It’s a man’s job to protect—”

He cuts off abruptly and mutters, “Fuck.” Then he looks away and says gruffly, “I should go.”

He’s uncomfortable. I’ve never seen him uncomfortable.

It’s oddly appealing.

I say softly, “You can’t just show up out of the blue and leave ten seconds later. At least stay for a cookie.”

His gaze slides back to mine, and now it’s heated. “I don’t want to keep you.”

He says it like that’s exactly what he wants to do: keep me.

If my face gets any redder, he’ll think I’ve burst a vessel.

Then he backtracks. “You’re baking cookies?”

“Yes. Well, they’re probably hockey pucks by now because my oven’s a piece of junk, but I’ve got another batch ready to go.”

“You bake?”

A prick of irritation makes me frown at him. “Why is that so surprising? Do I look like I’m incapable of operating a kitchen appliance?”

“I’ve never met a beautiful woman who bakes.”

I find that even more irritating. Because one, I don’t like backhanded compliments, two, skill with baking has absolutely nothing to do with a woman’s looks, and three, he makes it sound like beautiful women are draped all over him wherever he goes.

Which they probably are, but still. I don’t like the idea.

I say tartly, “And I’ve never met an eight-foot-tall debt collector who launders money through real estate and flies a plane into a closed airport during a snowstorm, so we’re even.”

He grins. It’s breathtaking. He says, “Six-foot-six. Are you the jealous type?”

I think about it. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a man do something to make me jealous. Are you the type who enjoys making your girlfriends crazy by flirting with other women?”

In his pause, I sense an ocean of darkness.

He says gruffly, “I don’t have girlfriends.”

How are we standing closer? I don’t remember moving, but my feet must have a mind of their own, because suddenly, we’re only inches apart.

Holy Ghost of Christmas Past, this man smells divine. My heart beating madly, I say, “Are you married?”

Staring at my mouth, he says, “You know I’m not.”

Yes, we’ve already discussed this, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t acquire a Mrs. Dangerous Alpha since I last saw him a few months ago.

“Work keep you too busy?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm. So it’s only one-night stands for you, then?”

His gaze drifts back up to mine. He takes his time, looking over my features, until our eyes meet again.

It feels like being plugged into a socket.

In a throaty voice, he says, “No one-night stands. No girlfriends. No anything since I first laid eyes on you.”

We stare at each other in blistering silence until the smoke alarm starts to scream.

Because my nerves are already stretched thin, I jump at the sound. Then I run into the kitchen. It’s filled with smoke. Coughing, I pull the door open and wave away the smoke that billows out into my face.

Behind me, Kage says, “Move.”

He’s thrown his wool overcoat onto a kitchen chair and put on the oven mitts. The tight black short-sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing shows off his impressive collection of tattoos and muscles, so much so that I have to look away so he doesn’t catch me gaping.

I step aside and let him grab the baking sheet with its smoking, blackened cookies from the demon oven, then watch in admiration as he calmly closes the oven door, hits the fan button on the top of the range, and sets the baking sheet onto the stovetop.