Chapter 14 Reyna #2
You know what? They can go sleep together. It’s none of my business. They’re both adults who can do whatever they want. If they end up together afterward, then good for them. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for their stupid wedding pictures, and the annoyingly beautiful babies they’d make together.
“What is that?”
Maddox’s voice pulls my attention away from the computer. Half the class gawks at our professor, who’s giving the student a couple of seats down from me the death stare.
The guy—I think his name is Corrin—has his hand suspended in the air, about to put something in his mouth. He glances behind him like he’s checking if he’s the correct recipient of Maddox’s wrath. “Uh… cashews?”
I mentally confirm with myself that I did bring my EpiPen. It’s fine as long as I don’t eat them. It’d be painfully embarrassing if I went into anaphylactic shock in the middle of class.
“Get out.”
My eyes widen. The entire classroom goes quiet, and everyone stares at Maddox like he’s grown two heads.
“What?” Corrin stutters, looking around the room, silently begging someone to come to his rescue.
“This is a nut-free class.”
“Since when?”
Yes. Since when, Maddox?
The guy next to me was cracking open pistachios last week, and no one batted an eye. In fact, I don’t think there’s a single class at this university with a nut-free rule.
Slowly, Shaw sets his pencil down. “Are you questioning me?”
“Uh… Yes—I mean no. No. I, um—”
“Out.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. Corrin scrambles for his things as everyone collectively shares the same idea of avoiding eye contact with him and Maddox. When the door snicks shut behind Corrin, the tension in the room is palpable in the stoic silence.
Shaw’s eyes clash with mine for one long second before he returns his attention to his sketchpad. It’s unlike the fury I’m used to, or the jealousy I was confused enough to think I saw yesterday.
No, this time my head spins and my brain goes through a series of mental aerobics to justify the possession flickering in the depths of his poison-ivy irises.
The implication hits me right in the stomach.
He did this for me.
I don’t care how wrong my assumption probably is, or how delusional I am to let a thought like that cross my mind—butterflies are soaring through my stomach.
Red tinges my cheeks as I force myself to focus on the computer screen.
I’m not special enough for anyone to make a blanket rule in my favor.
Nor am I important enough to have someone kicked out of class for it.
This isn’t me wallowing in self-pity; it’s a hard fact.
I’m a stone’s throw away from decent, and I’m far from perfect.
I’ll let myself have this moment; then I’ll go back home and scream into my pillow for having my head so far up in the clouds for thinking a person like Maddox Shaw could give a damn.
Just the thought of needing to be in a room alone with him after this has my fingers trembling on the computer mouse. As far as I’m aware, he’s never offered to see any other students after class.
Pull yourself together, Reyna.
I need to stop reading into this. It’s probably out of respect for my mom—something that has nothing to do with me. That’s how it is most of the time.
My shit is in my bag and the computer turned off before Shaw gives the okay for us to pack up and leave. I don’t dare look his way as I dart for the nearest bathroom.
Splashing water onto my face and neck, I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to touch grass or reconnect with nature or something after all the thoughts I’ve been having about Maddox.
I spend the next hour in the library, attempting to make a judgment call on the latest kill Lawrence sent my way. But my traitorous mind keeps straying back to Maddox. The way he looked at me. The heat of his body. The words he whispered against my ear in my dream.
Be a good girl, and spread your legs for me.
Blowing out a breath, I readjust myself in my chair and glance around to make sure no one is looking.
There’s a single student a couple of desks down from me, and another milling about, perusing the leatherbound books on the shelves.
The dark wooden floorboards let out the barest groan as she walks.
The sound of her footsteps is nearly as loud as the typing from the person closest to me.
The third floor is the most deserted section of the library, far away from any books relevant to course material. It’s also where they put their most uncomfortable seats. But it’s my preferred spot. Hidden away from people. Quiet. Zero distractions.
No one can see my screen when my back is to the wall, and I have the perfect view of everyone coming in and out of the area.
I squint at the crime-scene image, trying to ignore the way my stomach tightens as memories of Dream Maddox fucking me against a canvas burn behind my eyelids. The lust slowly eases enough for me to process the marks on the subject, then any thoughts about him evaporate.
My skin prickles as I trace the hexagonal shapes carved into the man’s back. It’s like the honeycomb insignia in the missing alumni books of the years the Shadow’s victims graduated.
They have to be linked. There’s no other way. Whatever this honeycomb is, it’ll have answers.
I’m not sure how it links with my dad, but I’m certain it does. Did he ever mention bees or anything of the sort? I think when I was a kid, the one time he stayed for a couple of days, he told me a bunch of things about the hierarchy of the insect; otherwise I don’t recall.
I think Mom mentioned he was part of a frat, maybe? What were they called? I don’t even remember where he worked while he was studying. He told me once, but that was years ago.
Could my killer have something to do with Dad? I think that’s too far-fetched. They had something in common, though. From what I could tell, a lot of the Shadow’s victims attended Cresswell. So did Dad. Maybe he even knew some of the people who died.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I switch between the pictures to get a better look at the markings.
Lawrence said the organized crime unit took over due to the executional style of the kill and the torture that occurred premortem. The symbols etched into his skin are the only reason Lawrence thought it could be “my guy.”
I’m certain it wasn’t him.