Page 29 of Cruel Kiss

"That's true," he agrees. "I would have preferred to have this conversation without you finding it first. But here we are."

Thenerveof him. I scoff. It comes out of me like a laugh that got sick and died halfway. "'Here we are.' You know what, Ronan? The sheer, unbelievablenerveof you. You bug my car. You bug my kids. And then you sit at my island in your little glasses reading the sports section, and when I catch you, you just go, 'Here we are.'"

"Would you like me to be more defiant about it?"

"I would like you to haveasked."

"And what would you have said if I did that?"

"I'd have said no!"

"Precisely," he says. "That's why I didn't ask."

I don't remember lunging at him, but somehow, I'm closer now, close enough to jab a finger at him. "You don't get to decide that! You don't get to decide that my no is inconvenient so you'll just skip past it! That is exactly,exactlythe thing?—"

"I know what it is." His voice stays level. "It's the thing I did with the mirrors, and the invoice, and the company. It's the whole reason you're standing in this kitchen ready to put my head through the window instead of upstairs planning our honeymoon." A corner of his mouth twitches, like he can't help teasing me, even now. "I'm aware of the pattern,kotyonok.You're not telling me anything I haven't already told myself."

"Then why do you keepdoing it?"

"Because the alternatives are bloody, and I decided a long time ago I would rather you be furious with me than have to find out where they took you or them."

I shake my head like that'll keep his stupid logic away from me. It might be contagious, after all. "That's—no. No. You don't get to benobleabout this. You don't get to do a creepy, controlling, felony thing and then dress it up as love."

"I never said love. I wouldn't presume that far."

"You know what I mean!"

"I do." He nods, slow. "I know exactly what you mean."

The problem is this kitchen. It's not big enough to handle all thesefeelingstaking place in it. It was never built for an enraged woman to properly storm around in and flail her arms while yelling at a man who deserves a frying pan to the noggin. Every time I swing at him with another accusation, I end up a step closer, because there's nowhere else to go.

He doesn't move away, not an inch. He just sits there on that stool with his forearms on his knees now, looking up at me, and the expression on his face is neither fear nor shame.

It's amusement.

He'samused.At me. While I have my finger an inch from his throat.

"Are youlaughing?"

"No."

"You are, too. You're absolutely laughing."

"Again, I would never dare to do such a thing." He looks down at my finger, then back up at me. "You're very close, by the way."

I take a step back. "Don't change the subject. The subject is that you're a stalker."

"I think that's a harsh interpretation. I made you safer without your consent, which we've already agreed is wrong. But even though I'm agreeing with you about it, it only appears to be enraging you further."

"It IS enraging me further!"

"Like I said, I can see that."

I run out of new material somewhere. I've used up all the fresh outrage and now, I'm just recycling, I'm circling back tothe nerveandyou had no rightandmy children, hitting the same three notes over and over. I'm exhausting myself, honestly. All this running in mental/emotional circles might be good cardio, but it isn't solving a dang thing.

What does seem to be somewhat of a solution is what Ronan does next.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, unlocks it with his thumb, taps a few times, and holds it out to me.