Chapter 23 Reyna
REYNA
The spot on my thigh Maddox was rubbing the entire drive feels hollow and cold now that we’ve arrived.
Everything is so cold.
The chill has seeped into my bones and rendered me frozen. I don’t want to move. I’m not sure I could if I tried. My head hurts too much.
Maddox had the heater on full blast, but nothing he said during the drive made it beyond my ears.
I’m too numb to feel the pain throughout my body.
I doubt I’d notice if the world stopped turning.
Everything is a blur. My brain is spinning with thoughts I can’t make sense of, and I can’t escape the pressure in my head.
Maddox opens my door. I stay limp as he unbuckles me from my seat and cradles my body against his chest, up the garage stairs and into the building.
I have half a mind to fight him and insist I walk, but I don’t have the energy.
The truth is that the warmth of his arms is the only thing tethering my sanity together.
I felt fine until we got to the car. As soon as I was hit by the silence, my adrenaline crashed and sleep was screaming my name.
“Where are you taking me?” I croak as we walk through the darkness. Please, don’t be a basement.
“We’re getting you cleaned up.” His arms tighten around me to keep me still. “I’ll take care of you.”
The light switches on and hits me right in the retina. A faint ringing sounds in my ear. I fist Maddox’s hoodie and bury my face in his shoulder, silently groaning from the ache that spreads through my head.
By some miracle, I swallow a needy whimper when he carefully sets me on the edge of the kitchen counter and pulls away, saying something I miss and taking his heat with him.
I blink my bleary eyes at the low light to survey my surroundings.
Maddox’s kitchen looks exactly like the aesthetic he maintains.
Clean, elegant, the type of man who’d own an English country estate on a hill, with an equestrian ranch beside it.
There’s a rustic feel to the white marble countertops, polished sage cupboards, and brass handles.
From what I can see of the kitchen and dining room, the house appears like an unlived-in home. There is artwork on the walls and shelves, the odd decorative piece on the table. But no photos or personal effects beyond a stack of books. It’s a facade. I expect nothing less from him.
Porcelain clinks against the marble counter as he slides a cup of tea my way. “Drink.”
How very British of him.
I sip without tasting it. The hot liquid trickles down the back of my throat and does very little to thaw the chill in my bones.
It doesn’t dispel the fog clouding my mind or bring me any closer to the present either.
It isn’t until a warm cloth touches my face that I jolt, becoming aware that my surroundings have changed since I was first placed on the counter.
There’s now a bowl of water beside me and a first aid kit laid out on the opposite side of the kitchen island.
I rear back when the cloth touches the raw skin of my cheek.
“Sorry.” Maddox adjusts his grip to dab at the bruised area with the delicate touch only an artist could master. His brows are stitched together in pained concentration like this is hurting him more than it’s hurting me.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.
It’s my fault after all. I should have been more careful. On the other hand, he shouldn’t have led me there. I guess we’re both to blame.
The tension in my muscles bleeds away as he slowly cleans my wound. His touch is gentle—intimate in a way that seems impossible. For a few seconds, I let myself pretend we’re just two ordinary people. I’m not his student. He’s not a serial murderer. Our relationship isn’t doomed from the get-go.
When I reopen my eyes, I focus on him, imprinting this exchange to memory. His eyes crinkle at the corners the way they do when he puts graphite to paper, focused like a painter working on his craft.
If I were a portrait painter, his face would be my very first study. Chiseled jaw, full lips, and the faintest wrinkle between his brows from years of frowning.
He must have wiped away the blood splatter from his cheek at some point during the drive, because he looks as put together as the day I met him.
It’s hard to reconcile that these are the same hands that have killed, maimed, and mutilated. They’ve been soaked in blood, and covered in paint. Broken bones, and flayed skin. What’s even harder to reconcile is that I don’t fear them.
I don’t fear him.
My vision goes blurry at the sudden pounding in my head and the wave of nausea that follows. My hand flies forward to grab on to Maddox before I can fall. He tucks my head beneath his chin as if we’ve done this a thousand times before—as if it’s as natural as coming home.
And as if that weren’t cruel enough, he starts caressing the back of my head.
I want to fucking sob because everything he’s doing feels too good. He’s making this harder than it already is.
“You probably have a concussion,” he says softly.
I push at his chest, though I’m not fooling myself into thinking I’m strong enough to move this mountain of a man. “I’m fine.”
Maddox works his jaw, but says nothing. He finishes cleaning my face before sticking a Band-Aid on my cheek. “Either I take you to the hospital now, or I’ll take you upstairs so you can rest. Regardless, I’m taking care of you.” He drops the cloth in the sink. “We can discuss everything tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
No, I can’t wait until then. I deserve answers—I need them more than I need to breathe.
I hold my hand up to stop him. “I don’t want to sleep under your roof until we talk.”
He places the tea into my hands before moving back.
“Ask away. I’m an open book.” He looks like he most definitely does not want me to ask away. I get the feeling that none of this is going according to his plan.
I blow out a breath. My brain goes hazy, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Why must you be a stereotypical, attractive serial killer? Couldn’t Bocklin’s Shadow be ugly?”
My comment takes the both of us by such surprise that a laugh rumbles right out of him. It bulldozes through the tense atmosphere, and the smile that spreads across his face catches me so off guard that I find my lips tipping upward too, stopped by the ache in my cheek.
“Forgive me for disappointing.” He grins softly. “I had a monobrow when I was ten if that helps. However, I’m open to feedback on how to improve to fit your vision.”
“Grow back the monobrow,” I croak, fighting the need to lie down.
“I fear my sex appeal would skyrocket if I did. You’d be hopeless to deny me then.”
I huff a chuckle, bringing the cup back to my lips. Trust a Brit to brew a good cup of tea. A bloodstained Brit no less.
I should be denying him, or at the very least interrogating him, but when our messed-up conversation flows so easily, it’s hard not to just give in. Still, this is too important. My life could depend on it.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I sift through the mush in my brain, searching for what could be most important to ask.
How many people have you killed?
How have you evaded authorities for so long?
Do you have a favorite crime scene?
When was your first kill?
Do you keep souvenirs?
Why are you the way you are?
“Did you know he’d be there?” I blurt instead.
Maddox shakes his head, hardening in anger. “Paddy had a gambling problem. I wasn’t aware he owed criminals money. He must have been waiting inside the house, because I didn’t see him come in.”
Oh. It really is my fault in every sense of the word.
“Thank you.” When he shoots me a questioning look, I explain. “For coming in—saving me. If you had gotten there a minute later, he could’ve…”
“That’s not fucking good enough. I should have known better. He hurt you, and if he were still alive, I would turn his spleen into an art display.”
A warm, fuzzy feeling settles over me. I blame it on the possible concussion.
To an extent, I get it. It makes sense that someone so put together could cause so much carnage. He needs a release. An escape. From what I know, those men deserved it.
“Why?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, love.”
“Why do you do what you do?” I wince when I try to massage the back of my head.
Maybe, if I can know why, then… what? I can relate? Sympathize? Understand him better? Deep down, I know why that’s the question I chose to ask. I want him to let me in and trust me.
Maddox doesn’t say anything for a while. The passing seconds have my hope dwindling. He stares at me with the empty, withdrawn mask he wears in front of everyone else.
The last thing I want is to be treated like I’m just anyone to him. Another person he keeps at arm’s length so no one can see the real him—not the artist, nor the killer—him. I don’t get why he let me find out if he never intended to give me an explanation.
“It wasn’t a conscious choice I made. I was cursed to be this way.
” Tormented, his eyes drop to an empty spot on the counter.
I want to reach out to take away his pain.
Pull him apart so I can see every broken part of him.
His stare snaps back up to mine. “Do you realize how broken I had to be to become this violent?” He asks it like a question but it hangs in the air like a confession.
“Your father.” It’s a guess—one I’d bet good money on given what little he’s shared about his parents.
“That’s part of it.”
“Mother?”
“They say that it takes a village to raise a child. Each person leaves a mark on their lives, bypassing their innate nature to shape them into who they are. It determines how they express themselves, engage with others, and the types of passions they might have. Some people were born with violence in their blood. I was made to become it.”