Chapter 22 Reyna #3
“I’m going to pass out,” I rasp, knees wobbling from the piercing pain in my head.
“Please don’t. That would be rather embarrassing for you. Out of character too, might I add.”
White dots my vision. “My head,” I slur as I feel my body go sideways.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Maddox closes the distance in the blink of an eye, holding me against him with a bloody hand cupping my cheek.
The warm liquid smears along my skin, and the coppery scent slams into my nose. I tentatively bring my trembling hands to my face, and pull them away to stare at the fine coat of red on the tips of my fingers.
“You got his blood on me.” My voice is hoarse, ragged like I’ve been sobbing for hours on end.
“Say the word and I could get more—the thickness of the liquid makes it good to paint with. Although, it doesn’t age well.” His eyes show no amusement as he speaks, only stone-cold worry.
The morbid humor melts away some of my shock to make room for the panic to settle back in. Alarm bells grow louder in my head. He’s a serial killer, and I’m the star witness.
I yank myself out of his hold and stumble toward the stairs to put distance between me, Maddox, and his latest victim.
“You’re a murderer,” I hiss, pointing the stun gun at him in case it turns out I’m the endgame. I don’t believe it, but self-preservation demands it.
He raises a brow, seemingly pleased that I’m no longer a fainting risk. “Says my stalker.”
“I wasn’t stalking you,” I stammer, forgetting about the dead man on the floor. My head pounds like someone is taking a sledgehammer to it. Everything hurts. “I wasn’t. I—I was following your work and studying it. That’s different.”
“Are you or are you not at my crime scene?” He raises a brow. “Might I add that you’ve displayed clear signs of obsession toward me. I admit, I’m rather flattered.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were the killer,” I try to reason. Not for certain.
“Which makes you a terrible stalker. Investigative work is not your forte, Miss Sinaga. There’s another bag of Cheetos in the cupboard and iced tea in the fridge, in case you missed it.”
He’s unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. This isn’t how any normal person should be reacting—admittedly, he isn’t exactly normal. Neither am I.
Which begs the question, what would a normal person do in this situation?
Beg? Run? Scream? Go straight to the cops?
All of which I’m not doing, and as many times as I tell myself that I should, deep down I know I won’t.
And that’s what makes this worse. There’s something off-kilter about me.
He knows it. I know it. I’m just looking for excuses to fight it.
“Were you waiting for me to show up?”
“No, I’ve been following you around.” He gives me a blank look like it’s obvious.
I gawk at him. “How is that better?”
“I told you that you’re not visiting crime scenes alone anymore.” At least he has the grace not to remind me of the evidence proving how dangerous my extracurricular activity is.
“You’ve been leaving me hints. Why would you do that?”
“To lead you to me,” he says simply. “I also knew you wouldn’t be able to resist seeing this one. You thought of it, after all.”
That opens the floodgates.
“No. No.” I wave the stun gun at the chair and corpse. “You don’t get to put this on me. I didn’t tell you to murder someone, let alone like this!”
“Love, it was such a bright idea. How could I not?”
A pun now? “I’m done.” I shake my head, voice rising in volume. Fatigue rushes through me from my movements. “I’m done. This is pointless.” I push past him to get my things.
Of course the unhinged critters in my stomach flutter their wings. This is a sickly romantic gesture. I… I don’t entirely hate it.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn around without really meaning to.
I regret it immediately because everything spins.
The creases around his eyes disarm me and hold me hostage.
He’s always been the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
With red droplets decorating his skin, he’s downright striking.
“No.” Maddox looks like power—the deranged, dark kind I’ve been trying to encapsulate on camera. Eyes flashing with energy he has yet to expel. “Don’t.”
My throat bobs. I won’t be told what to do. I’ve fallen for those green eyes before; I’d be a fool for it to happen again when only one of our cards is on the table. “I won’t stand around and talk to you if you won’t take me seriously.”
“We’ll talk somewhere else, then.” He shifts closer. “Do you trust me?”
Yes. I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re a serial killer.” One who should kill me to protect his identity but hasn’t.
“Let me rephrase. Do you trust me not to harm you?”
His gaze meets mine, forehead wrinkled with worry for me—not the knowledge that I hold.
My lungs feel like they might collapse under the weighted silence as I recall every interaction we’ve ever had and the events of the past few minutes. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, until the day I inevitably die, he’ll never lay a hand on me.
“I do.”
I trust him, and it might be the biggest mistake I’ll ever make.