Chapter 8 Maddox
MADDOX
I’m hallucinating. It’s nearly the witching hour, I’m sleep-deprived, and this is the first time I’ve left my studio in two days.
My exhibition is in two and a half months. It’s meant to be my last attempt at making a comeback into the art world, and I don’t have a single piece ready. The last thing I need is a distraction. Yet my hindbrain is conjuring up the woman who’s the sole reason for my hellish state.
Because there she is. A ghost gliding across the courtyard bracketed by towers that have stood the test of the ages.
She’s haunting me.
I can’t stop myself. I slink toward her, sticking close to the wall. Reyna crosses the courtyard, glancing at her surroundings every few seconds—conveniently missing me in the shadows.
Fate, you dirty bastard. I’m meant to be keeping my distance, but the universe is insistent on tormenting me by putting her in my path when my grasp on control is as strong as a fraying thread.
It’s well past midnight, and my student has decided it’s the right time to be walking alone on a deserted campus. What type of person does that? Right, the type who visits murder scenes when they have the survival skills of a newborn puppy.
Reyna is going to send me into a heart attack.
It’s a good thing our interactions will drop to zero come the end of the semester.
After that, I’ll be free from the chains she’s put me in, and I’ll never have to lose sleep over her.
No more plotting murders that are specifically designed for her to see.
No more picturing her as I paint. None of that. It’ll be like she never existed.
For now, I can sate my curiosity, see how she thinks, and—
No, I need to turn left to go home to my townhouse to drink myself into a stupor.
I have to catch up on sleep and pull myself together so I can be ready for my exhibition.
Reyna Sinaga isn’t my problem and never will be.
She’s an adult who can make her own decisions regarding her safety.
If she chooses to be an admirer of my kills and walk alone at night, that’s her prerogative.
She’s no one. Nothing.
A rude student with attitude problems who just so happens to be attractive.
An irritant. Inconsequential. A nuisance.
She doesn’t matter to me.
She and I have no business talking to each other.
I jog down the stairs and turn right.
Maybe I’ll look into getting Reyna removed from my class so I can escape the spell she’s cast on me. Witchcraft is the only explanation for it.
I don’t want anything to do with her. Any person who speaks the way she does and visits crime scenes for fun is problematic, and the last thing that I need is more problems.
This is a bad idea. I know it. The gods know it. My dead uncle knows it. (May he rest in peace. A literal knife in the back is a bad way to go.) So tell me why I stalk toward her, like the absolute fucking idiot that I am.
A complete tosser who’s been picking on her in class just because I want to hear her voice.
She never puts her hand up to answer willingly, and she talks too quietly with Nicole for me to catch what she’s saying, and I’ve been utterly deprived of the sound of her voice unless I call her out in the middle of a lecture.
She was flustered the first time. Irritated the second. Now, she just glares.
Not once have I needed to correct her answers.
Reyna is the best student in this class. Bradford was a fool for not seeing it.
That same craving hits me as I creep closer to her. The need to hear her voice.
An odd sensation that holds juvenile familiarity vibrates through my veins. It changes the rhythm of my breaths and the thud of my pulse. I haven’t experienced anything like it since primary school, when the girl I had a crush on sat next to me. A fucking crush.
This is a very fucking bad idea.
This needs to stop. Right now.
The sandstone pavement scrapes the bottom of my shoes as I turn to leave. I should never have approached her to begin with—both here and at the art gallery. This ends now. There is to be no further interaction with Reyna from this moment on.
“Mr. Shaw?”
Fuck.
The unwelcome sensation in the pit of my stomach turns molten, heating my body by two degrees.
That’s the second time she’s called me that. I barely have a grip on my sanity as it is. If she calls me Mr. Shaw in her husky voice a third time, I’m going to kill the first person I see, no questions asked.
I’m a grown man getting hard from the sound of my star pupil’s voice. Someone once suggested that I need therapy. Perhaps it’s time to seriously consider that option.
The muscle in my jaw feathers as I turn around, facing the girl who’s unknowingly stalking me. All the air rushes from my lungs in one fell swoop.
Reyna Sinaga is breathtaking.
No, breathtaking isn’t a strong enough word. I could spend a lifetime scouring every dictionary in existence, and I would never find a descriptor that would come close to what she is.
Words are caught in my throat as I take her in. She’s a whirlwind of sharp edges and soft curves—harsh jaw, button nose, a cupid’s bow pointed enough to cut, and round, almond eyes.
I’ve always known that she was stunning. It was the first thought that crossed my mind when she looked my way at the art gallery.
I’ve caught myself staring at her one too many times during class, and walking through campus alone. And when I crept away into my studio, staring at a blank canvas, she came to the forefront of my mind.
Our breaths plume into the night air, filling the space between us, and I have the urge to move closer to feel her against my skin.
Nothing is stopping me from turning around and pretending our eyes never locked, that she never drew me in.
But I can’t bring myself to move. It’s unsettling enough that she’s visiting crime scenes by herself.
Seeing her walk around in the middle of the night has the black part of my soul rearing its head.
The only reason I’m so concerned is because she’s my student who shows the most promise. Yes, that’s it. If something happens to her, there’ll be a plethora of paperwork and investigations I’d rather not be part of.
People will talk if anyone sees us out here.
There’s no telling what would happen to us if word were to go back to my parents or the faculty about this midnight meeting.
I need to leave. Despite that, I stay exactly where I am, hands pressed to my sides so I don’t do something idiotic like try to touch her.
The silence between us grows, and it sours as I take in the rest of her. Reyna lacks self-preservation of any form if she thinks it’s a good idea to wear a jacket that thin when it’s this cold.
She’s doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that she’s shivering. My first thought is to offer her my coat and get her into my office. My second is, again, it’s none of my bloody business what she does.
I’m both pleased and displeased that she’s wearing a skirt that falls past her knees, instead of the minis that drive me insane.
She drives me insane.
“You shouldn’t be walking around alone after dark, Miss Sinaga. You never know when a killer might be on the loose.”
“I don’t fit his MO.”
Her eyes widen with her slipped confession. I wipe the grin off my face.
God, she’s infuriating.
She clears her throat, yanks her satchel forward, and frantically unclips the front pockets to grab a can of mace and a switchblade. A KitKat, a bag of Cheetos, and an EpiPen hit the ground in the process, and she scrambles to put them back in her bag.
My brows flatten. Why the bloody hell does she have an EpiPen?
Reyna holds out her weapons and tips her chin up. “I have protection.”
How cute. She’s trying to salvage her mistake.
That doesn’t make her any less of a liability to me and to herself.
“Those aren’t permitted on campus—or in this state.” In fact, she seems to be breaking as many laws as I am. Although at a different scale. But sometimes, it’s about quantity and not quality. I can be a numbers guy.
“Neither of those two things in your hand will offer any sort of protection unless someone is willing to give you five seconds’ head start to take them out of your bag.
” I take a step forward, and those plump lips of hers part.
The temptation to reach out to see what they’d feel like between my teeth is overwhelming.
She’s walking around. At night. Underdressed. Alone. Visiting murder scenes and who knows what else. With no real defense.
It’s not my business.
Not. My. Business.
“I do hope you don’t intend to use those for anything outside of your nighttime strolls.”
I just can’t help myself, can I? Talking with her is too enjoyable.
Reyna pales beneath the glow of the lampposts. I can see the six words pinging around in her head: He knows about the crime scenes.
Oh, darling, I know.
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “Not at all. Just for safety. At night.”
Talented, stunning, occasionally quick-witted, and the newest pain in my ass.
I’ve never met such a horrific liar. It’s rather beguiling.
Another step and her shoulders are curling upward, ready to bolt. “Is that so?” My voice drops several notes, shrinking the space between us until she’s a measly five feet away, and I can just feel her harsh breaths.
Reyna is even more beautiful up close. Her thick lashes aren’t long enough to brush her cheek, but they line her eyes in a way that makes the flecks of bronze in her irises stand out. The shadows play with every part of her face, dipping and curving in certain areas, exaggerating her features.
She nods frantically. “Yes. You know. Walking, in the subway, going out. All very reasonable, normal stuff.”
The dim lights of the streetlamps give her the sort of morbid elegance that would suit a woman standing at the end of a balcony, holding a dying tealight.
My studio is practically tugging at me as the image takes form in my mind.
It’s coming to me clearer than anything else has in months—years even.