Chapter 12 Maddox
MADDOX
I have a pile of assignments waiting to be graded.
An exhibit to prepare for.
A research paper to draft.
Someone to kill.
A brother to protect and a woman I’m meant to be marrying to protect said brother.
Yet as I move through the dim-lit library, ostensibly to chip away at the endless list, something intrinsic in my soul, like a compass pointing north, makes me turn my head right and peer around the shelves.
Reyna.
The organ in my chest gives an unfamiliar stutter as I come to a stop. Finishing to the thought of her three nights ago has only worsened my desire for her.
The very last thing I have time for is a student who already occupies far too much of my thoughts. Every part of my brain is screaming at me to leave her well be.
But that compass is still pointing, and my soul and body are at its whim.
“Miss Sinaga.”
She doesn’t hear me, lightly bobbing her head to the music playing through her headphones as she concentrates on the screen. The cold glow of the library computer brushes her tanned skin, creating a stark contrast against the green light streaming from the desk lamps.
Dark-brown eyes flick my way, and she jolts back, yanking her headphones off. “Mr. Shaw,” she gasps, glancing at our deserted surroundings.
She’s beautiful. I think that every time I see her.
There’s no one around to witness our interaction.
This place is usually a ghost town past dinnertime.
The idea shouldn’t thrill me, but it does—if she tries to run, I’d be the only one here to catch her.
I almost wish she would so I would have an excuse to chase her.
I’m sure the faculty would love if I did exactly that.
Reyna’s too busy being shocked—and just as confused as I am by my stupidity in approaching her—to notice those dark thoughts.
“Another late night?”
And there I go starting up an actual conversation. No wonder Roland thinks I’m a fool.
Reyna glances at her screen. “It’s seven.”
“As I said, it’s late. Not exactly the safest hour.” I frown at the bright-yellow object sitting a couple of inches from her bag. “Why is there an EpiPen on the table?”
This is the second time I’ve seen her with one.
Red kisses her cheeks. “Just in case I need it. I thought there were nuts in my takeout a couple hours ago. I took some antihistamines as a preventative but… yeah. Sorry. Coast clear, I guess.”
Reyna laughs nervously and shoves it into her brown leather satchel.
She has a nut allergy? Why was this not underlined in red in her student profile? This is pure negligence on the university’s part. I’ll be having words with the administration manager to ensure this doesn’t happen again.
“What specifically are you allergic to?” Ignoring her protests, I take the EpiPen out of her bag.
“You can’t just grab things out of my—” She reaches for my arm, and I hold my breath in the hopes she closes the distance. My pulse hammers as she drops her hand back onto her lap, stopping short of touching me.
I turn the pen in my hand until I find the small black inscription. It expires in two months. “Is this the only one you have?”
She nods. “I only need one.”
Incorrect. She should have one in her bag and another in her pocket at all times.
There should also be one in every room she enters, and every class she has. Another oversight on the university’s part.
“What type of nuts can’t you eat?”
“Um, just tree nuts.”
I nod.
I’m willing to admit my own shortcomings. Not knowing the classes of nuts is one of them. A fact that will change before the day ends.
Her throat bobs, and the traitorous, torturous, perverted part of my psyche pictures her splayed out on her back, head tipped over the edge as I watch her choke on every inch of my cock I feed her. Not exactly something I should be thinking about when discussing anaphylaxis.
“What are you doing here?”
My eyes snap to hers. Fuck. If I stand for another second with her mouth in line with my groin, she’ll see just what she does to me.
Invading her personal space yet again, I lower myself into the chair next to hers and start reading the screenwriting assignment she never offered to show me.
“I-It’s not very good. It’s still a draft. So don’t judge it—or read it for that matter. I’m just getting the skeleton down,” she rushes out, but doesn’t seem to dare move closer as her eyes flicker between me and the two inches of space between our knees.
Her bloody throat bobs again.
There is quite literally nothing stopping me from fucking off back to my office because Lord knows I have a lot of things to do. None of which include picturing myself throat fucking my student.
Instead, in a move that can only be described as willful self-sabotage, I nod my head at the document on the computer. “Is anyone dying in it?”
She blinks, mouth opening and closing before she realizes what I’m referring to. “No, but someone cuts off their own leg,” she says skeptically.
“How?” Not why.
She notices that too, if her narrowing eyes are any indication. “An axe.”
I hum.
“What?” Reyna crosses her arms, and I curse every god in existence when it makes her breasts swell over the neckline of her chocolate-brown dress and—fuck my life—her skirt rides up her thighs. “You think it’s screwed up and disgusting?”
I frown. I, for one, very much dislike the implication that someone might have said that to her. “No, I was going to say it’s overdone. Why not a standard wood saw?”
Her lips part on an O, and the soft blush that kissed her cheeks earlier blazes pink. It’s like a candle flickers to life behind her eyes, because she brightens and the lines around her frame soften.
She shakes her head. “Too time-consuming.”
True. Messy too. “A chainsaw is quick.”
“But not personal enough.”
“A cleaver,” I suggest.
A soft divot forms between her brows. It’s the same look she gets whenever she’s thinking hard in class.
“A bread knife would be kind of comedic—or a cheese knife.” A subtle grin twists her lips as she speaks, and it takes everything in me to fight back my own.
“Just as time-consuming as a saw.”
Her long hair drifts over her shoulders as she tips her head to the side. “I’m actually curious to know which one would be faster.”
Don’t offer to find out for her, I tell myself. But I mentally note to discover the answer. For myself, obviously. Professional curiosity.
The irony isn’t lost on me. She’s learning composition; I’m perfecting decomposition.
I shrug. “Money’s on the bread knife. Worse grip, but sturdier blade.”
“Huh. That’s a good point.” She purses her lips, the corners tipping upward. “It might work, actually. I have him making himself toast every morning as part of his monotonous routine.”
She’s practically hand-feeding me ideas for my own work. I believe I have a chef somewhere on my kill list. “Will the blood be pink in that assignment too?”
Her brows shoot up her forehead. I dislike that I don’t know the reason behind her shock at such a simple question. “That’s reserved for your class. Bradford hated it.” She rolls her eyes.
I scoff, risking leaning back now that I’m not about to stab her in the eye with my cock. “Bradford can’t recognize talent.”
“And you can?”
“Yes.” My own work may have gone to shit, but I still have eyes.
I take it back. My cock may still demand her attention if she keeps innocently biting her lip like that. How have I become so easy?
“Who would you consider to be the most promising student in our class? Bradford thought Nicole was a natural,” she says a couple volumes lower.
Reyna’s fishing, and I won’t be the one to tell her what she wants to hear. That would take this to another level we shouldn’t go near. But my answer would be her. In all of my classes, she’s the one who shows the most potential for greatness.
“It’s unprofessional for me to pick favorites, let alone discuss them with you, Miss Sinaga.” I keep my tone scolding, and it’s like lighting a fuse beneath her. It’s good to know she’s as reactive as I am.
“And discussing methods of dismemberment isn’t?” she argues.
I almost prefer it when she acts like she hates me, because then I can fool myself into loathing her. For a couple of seconds at least, before the sick thrill of her attention on me drags me closer to the edge of completely losing it.
Every inch of her was carved by a being of the divine, and each sentence past her plump, biteable lips seems to have been strung together to keep me in her web.
“Everything can be turned into an artform. Just as you’ve made blood pink. I’m curious to know what the thought process behind it was. It was never explained in your prior assignments.”
I’m curious about everything to do with her.
“What’s your take on it?” She says it like a challenge, as if she thinks I’ll never figure it out—and bloody fucking hell does she have me right where she wants me.
I feel myself sitting straighter. Feel the cogs turning in my head, the beat of my heart. It’s like going into a test where I’m ninety percent certain I know the material better than the back of my hand, but there’s still the ten percent.
“It’s never simply an aesthetic choice where you’re involved.”
The barest hint of a smile ghosts over her lips. It’s the knowing kind, like I’ve acknowledged a secret that’s been weighing her down. It’s distracting.
And it’s going straight to my head.
I fear the library isn’t big enough for how easily she stokes my ego.
I clear my throat. “One, that there’s a significant gender disparity in the film industry.
Of the top films, under ten percent of directors were women, and about sixteen percent of all directors, producers, writers, editors, et cetera, were women.
Which leads to two, you mentioned being able to tell if the creator was a man or a woman. No male would choose such a color.”
Reyna’s wide brown eyes have me feeling like some kind of idiot for wanting to puff my chest out like some pubescent attempting to woo a high school crush with basic knowledge.