Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(9)

I disconnect the call without replying. We both know I’ll be eating a liquid breakfast this morning.

Five years. How I’ve survived this long, I don’t know.

I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. When I head to the kitchen, I find Mojo lying like a big shaggy rug in front of the refrigerator, smiling in my direction.

“Do you need to go pee before breakfast, buddy?”

He pants and thumps his tail but doesn’t move, indicating his preference.

The dog has a bladder the size of an aboveground pool. If he wasn’t so solid, I’d think he has a hollow leg or two where he stores all his pee.

“Breakfast it is.”

After I’ve fed him and taken him out to the backyard for a potty break and a frolic through the bushes to chase squirrels, we head back inside. He takes his usual spot on the living room rug and promptly falls asleep, while I arm myself with a light-on-the-OJ mimosa.

I can’t do what I’m about to do without liquor.

The idea came to me while I was in the backyard watching Mojo piss on a shrub. It’s stupid, I know, but if today’s the last day I’ll have my wedding dress, I need to try it on one last time. A final goodbye of sorts. A symbolic step into my future.

I almost hope it doesn’t fit anymore. Raising ghosts from their graves can be dangerous.

My hands don’t start to shake until I’m standing outside the closed closet door in the guest room.

“Okay, Nat. Man up. Woman up. Whatever. Just…” I inhale a deep breath. “Get your shit together. You have to be calm by the time Sloane gets here, or she’ll flip.”

Ignoring how strange it is that I’m talking to myself out loud, I take a big gulp of the mimosa, set the champagne flute on the dresser, and gingerly open the closet doors.

And there it is. The puffy black garment bag that contains the memorial of all my lost dreams. It’s a sarcophagus, a zippered nylon tomb, and inside is my funeral shroud.

Wow, that’s dark. Drink up, Debbie Downer.

I guzzle the rest of the mimosa. It takes me another few minutes of pacing and wringing my hands before I work up the nerve to unzip the garment bag. When I do, the contents spill out with a sigh.

I stare at it. Tears pool in my eyes.

It’s beautiful, this stupid cursed dress. It’s a gorgeous custom-fitted cloud of silk and lace and seed pearls, the most expensive garment I’ve ever owned.

The most loved and hated.

I quickly strip down to only my panties, then take the dress off its hanger and step inside the full skirt. Pulling it up over my hips, I try to ignore how fast my heart is beating. I slip the halter straps over my head, then reach around behind me to zip the whole thing up.

Then I walk slowly to the floor-length mirror on the opposite side of the room and stare at myself.

The gown is a sleeveless halter style with a plunging neckline, an open back, and a cinched waist. It’s all overlaid with lace and decorated with tiny pearls and crystals. The princess skirt has a train embellished to match. The long veil hangs in the closet in its own bag, but I’m not brave enough to put the entire outfit together. Just getting the dress on is traumatic enough.

So is the jarring fact that it doesn’t fit.

Frowning, I pinch a few inches of loose fabric around the waist.

I’ve lost weight since I last had it on at the final fitting two weeks before the wedding. I’ve never been curvy to begin with, but it’s only now that I realize I’m too thin.

David wouldn’t have approved of this body. He was always encouraging me to eat more and work out more, to look more like Sloane.

I’d forgotten how much that hurt my feelings until right now.

I turn slowly left and right, lost in memories and mesmerized by how the crystals catch the light and sparkle, until the sound of the doorbell jolts me out of my daze.

It’s Sloane. She’s early.

My first instinct is to tear off the dress and stuff it guiltily back into the closet. But then it occurs to me that seeing me in it—and seeing me calm—is the best way to reassure her that I’m fine. That she doesn’t have to be so vigilant about watching over me.

I mean, if I can handle this, I can probably handle anything, right?

I shout toward the front door, “Come in!” Then I stand calmly in front of the mirror and wait.

The front door opens and closes. Footsteps echo through the living room, then stop.

“I’m back here!”

The footsteps start up again. Sloane must be wearing boots, because it sounds like a moose is clomping through my house.

I smooth my hands down the bodice of the dress, expecting to see Sloane’s head pop through the door. But the head that appears isn’t hers.

Gasping, I whirl around and stare in horror at Kage.

He dwarfs the doorway. He’s in all black again, leather and denim, combat boots to match. In his big hands is a package, a brown box sealed with tape.

On his face is a look of open astonishment.

Lips parted, he stares at me. His heated gaze rakes up and down my body. He exhales in an audible huff.

Feeling like I’ve been caught masturbating spread-eagle on the kitchen floor, I cover my chest with my arms and cry, “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“You told me to come in.”

God, that voice. That rich, husky baritone. If I wasn’t so horrified, I might think it was hot.