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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of graphic violence, sexual violence, emotional abuse, sexual content, and cursing.
Nat and Kage—an art teacher and a brutal assassin—are an unlikely couple. They are bound primarily by their sexual chemistry, which transcends reason and overwhelms their better instincts. This dynamic is a frequent feature of romance writing, which often presents the fantasy of intense and preternatural sexual compatibility, in which partners can intuit and fulfill each other’s physical needs perfectly.
The characters regularly point out that their relationship is beset with red flags, only to dismiss their doubts based on their sexual connection. Nat sees that staying with Kage puts her in mortal peril, and Kage confirms the danger he poses: “[I]f you have any sense, you should tell me to fuck off and never see me again” (245). When alone, Nat admits that she “wants to break away […] and tell him to go back to whatever hellhole he came from and leave” (229). However, after sex, she changes her mind: “The sheer pleasure of tasting him and feeling him against me suddenly takes priority over everything else” (229). The “pleasure” makes her unable to moderate her desire, which “takes priority” over other considerations.
Kage also feels the irresistible pull of their chemistry. Even when he has an open gunshot wound, he insists on sex before stitches: “Right now, I need to fuck you. Every night, I’ve been dreaming about the way you sound when you come” (338). The hold that Nat has over him is like an intoxicating drug to which “[she’s] already addicted” (313). As a figurative high, the attraction opposes common sense.
Nat’s experience of having sex with Kage is “unlike anything [she’s] ever felt. Part terror, part desire, and part pure adrenaline” (259). The hyperbolic, abstract diction reinforces the unquantifiable force of their intimacy. However, although their passion undercuts rational concerns about safety, it doesn’t undermine the novel’s interest in portraying completely consensual sexual encounters—a paradoxical contrast that plays into the novel’s more fantastical portrayal of idealized romance. Nat may describe herself feeling “terror,” but she is never actually frightened that Kage will use his greater physical strength and access to weapons to force her into sexual compliance. No matter how besotted Kage and Nat are, they remember to communicate at all times, using a code-word system to ensure that their prodigious passion doesn’t lead to nonconsensual experiences.
The Queens & Monsters series typically features female protagonists bringing out the vulnerable sides of their often violent and “macho” male romantic interests. Ruthless Creatures maintains the dynamic, as Nat enables the powerful and hyper-masculine Kage to stay in touch with his humanity. The novel hammers the idea home by making Kage compliment Nat by invoking the name of the series: “You’ve made this monster into a man again” (484).
The formula perpetuates heterosexual gender norms, given that “monstrous” men like Kage have a sensitive side that could be extracted by the right woman. This means that the responsibility rests with women like Nat to “fix” the men in their lives: If they fail to find the humanity under the brutal surface, the novels’ female protagonists, rather than the male “monsters,” would get the blame. At the same time, the dynamic undercuts an older romance tradition of men shaping and modifying women, as depicted, for example, in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion (1913). The series puts its female protagonists in positions of power over their male counterparts because of the women’s ability to elicit tenderness from men for whom showing emotion is typically a sign of weakness. After Nat declares her love for Kage, he crumbles: “[F]or the first time since I was a boy, I’m fighting back tears” (476).
The novel’s monster/man dichotomy isn’t stable; its male protagonist never actually transforms from one to the other. Instead, Kage goes from “monster” to “man” and back to “monster” depending on the situation. Kage’s traumatic past softens his brutal adult self, as it retroactively justifies his association with the Bratva: He didn’t join the criminal organization for the pleasure of killing but to punish the people who murdered his family. Nat empathizes with Kage’s pain: “He grieves. He bleeds. He’s made of flesh and bone. And he’s been alone since he was a boy, with nothing to sustain him but terrible memories” (364). Conversely, while Kage’s newfound ability to share his “terrible memories” makes him a suitably loving romantic partner, Nat never asks Kage to leave the Bratva. Nat’s humanizing influence may cause Kage to call her after forcing a subordinate to cut off his finger, but it never dampens his ability to enact this kind of violence. Kage claims, “After spending a week in Natalie’s arms, this life I lead tastes sour” (469), but his guilt is fleeting. The readers’ interest depends on Kage remaining a dangerous criminal, so his “happy ending” is both getting Nat and becoming the head of the criminal empire.
In her book Conflict Is Not Abuse (2016), theorist and author Sarah Schulman argues that people frequently mistake discord for mistreatment. Schulman urges those who prefer to identify as victims in all disagreements to instead differentiate disputes that provide a space for airing opposing views in a healthy way from actual harmful fights. This novel juxtaposes Nat’s relationships with different men to highlight a similar difference.
Kage and Nat’s relationship is filled with flirtatious tension, as Kage feels out Nat’s boundaries and occasionally oversteps them. However, even though Kage comes to Lake Tahoe to actively endanger Nat, his immediate turn from assassin to romantic interest precludes Nat from seeing herself as his victim. When he does something that brings her discomfort, she feels empowered to confront him about his behavior, and he agrees to modify his approach. This is most evident in their sexual encounters. Early in the novel, Kage announces over the phone, “My dick is rock-hard” (184). Nat refuses to countenance this over-the-top style and demands that he “dial it down a few thousand notches”—forthright indignation that causes Kage to apologize and desist. Kage and Nat thus demonstrate Schulman’s point. In this conflict, Nat doesn’t overstate the harm and voices her objection. In turn, Kage takes responsibility by issuing an apology. With Nat, Kage isn’t a predator. He doesn’t abuse her, and he goes to great lengths to protect her from true harm.
To showcase an abusive form of conflict, Geissinger juxtaposes Kage with antagonists Chris and David. Kage may be a criminal who kills people, but the novel’s villains are men who emotionally manipulate and physically threaten women. Though Chris is a sheriff, he’s not an upstanding member of law enforcement. Instead, he uses his position of authority to harass and stalk Nat. Hoping to threaten her into reentering their romantic relationship, Chris forcibly kisses her without her consent. This behavior is abusive, as shown by the fact that Nat does not feel safe deflecting Chris’s attention herself and requires Kage’s assistance to do so.
Likewise, David’s actions are a form of psychological abuse. When found in Panama, David is unmasked as a liar who treats women like disposable objects: abandoning his wife and children to steal money from the Bratva, telling a sob story to Nat to elicit her pity, and getting remarried in Panama soon after disappearing from Nat’s life. Kage points out that David has “always [been] full of shit” (582)—a selfish man happy to use those around him. David’s insidious style of abuse is also hard for Nat to counter on her own, as he refuses to take responsibility for the harm his choices have done. Kage thus emerges as an upstanding man who never uses his superior physical strength to threaten Nat and remains honest and communicative with her even to his own detriment.



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