Chapter 15 Reyna
REYNA
I steel my spine and rattle my knuckles against the imposing door. It opens instantly, like Maddox was waiting on the other side.
Neither of us says anything. Shamelessly staring at each other.
It feels wrong, like I’m rewarding him for pretending I didn’t exist hours ago.
He doesn’t bother hiding his perusal of me now, from my knee-high boots to my lacy tights, up to the silky maroon dress, pausing on the thin black ribbon around my throat.
When he licks his bottom lip, my skin flushes a deep crimson.
This happened in the dream.
He looks like he did back in class, except his hair is neater, tie straighter, cologne the slightest bit stronger. There’s no paint on him or any evidence of the graphite smudged on his hand. It’s the cleanest and most put together I’ve seen him in a while.
Maddox shifts back just enough for me to squeeze past him into the room, brushing against his hard expanse of muscle.
The smell of him is everywhere. On his clothes, in the air.
It’s muddling my brain so much that I blurt out, “You’re not sleeping.”
A single brow raises as he shuts the door behind him—and locks it. “You really are an astute observer.”
There’s no going back now. I motion to the blanket folded on the couch, stopping myself from pointing out the bags under his eyes instead. “Why? Are you okay?”
He falters, taken aback. “Careful, Miss Sinaga. You’re stepping into dangerous territory asking those types of questions.”
“I have a habit of doing that.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m well aware of your nighttime rendezvous.”
Okay, backtrack. Maybe this has nothing to do with my grades and everything to do with rehashing a conversation we’ve had ad nauseam.
If I recall correctly, I’m mad at him.
“Did you invite me to your office to discuss what I do in my spare time, Mr. Shaw? If my exercise of free will is the whole reason behind this meeting, then I want you to know that I hear you and I understand your concerns.”
I refuse to repeat our prior conversation. It’s easier to steer us toward the topic of his brother.
Clasping his hands together, he strolls to his computer chair and sits down. He crosses his leg at his knees, leans his elbows on the armrest, and eyes me, wearing his aggravating mask of indifference. Imposing on my personal space from the other side of the room.
I feel naked standing here, put on display for his viewing. But I don’t move. I let him drag his eyes over me again—I relish in it.
“Do you now?” Green eyes dart to the couch beside him. A silent order for me to sit.
I blow out a breath, hesitating before following suit. Lowering onto the leather sofa, I leave my satchel and camera bag on the floor, place the cushion on my lap, and squeeze my legs together.
This is where my dirty dream played out.
His eyes drop down to my thighs like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
My throat bobs, and I scramble to string together a sentence that will stop me from picturing how his abs contracted when he thrusted inside me.
I wet my lips and say, “It wouldn’t be right for your brother to see one of your students because it would put you in a compromising position.
It would be disrespectful on both our parts if your brother and I explored any kind of relationship, and I have no intention of making your life more difficult on that front. ”
He frowns and says nothing for four seconds. I know because I count them. “Right. Thank you.”
Because I’m an absolute idiot who can never leave things be, and I want to see whether he was indeed jealous, I keep going. “Until the end of the semester, at least.”
My chest constricts when his eyes swirl with a hint of the beast he hides beneath his immaculate veneer.
“You’ve mistaken me. Consider my concern permanent. You’re everywhere I look, and the only thing I ever see. Any more of you, and I will go completely mad. So, no, Miss Sinaga, I am not okay, and I’m afraid I will never be until I can purge you out of my system.”
What?
The air shifts. It grows pointed teeth and barbed wire that wraps around my lungs.
Maddox leans forward in his chair until he’s resting his weight on his knees.
Towering over me without standing. With how close he is, there’s barely enough room for me to make a run for it.
He acts like he despises me one minute, then looks at me like he’s a man possessed the next.
“Let me make this abundantly clear to you, love: I don’t wish to hurt my brother, so don’t make me.”
Love.
He… He was jealous.
What is happening?
The cogs in my head race a hundred miles per minute as I white-knuckle the cushion. Then they stop turning. His gaze falls to my lips for the briefest moment. Time suspends. Awareness prickles over my body.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” My words are barely above a whisper.
“If you want someone with better words, find a poet.” He opens the notebook on his desk and rips out one of the pages before writing on it.
Pushing the paper toward me, he gives me a pointed look that borders on complete rage.
“While we’re on the topic of my concerns,” he says through gritted teeth.
“If you so much as think about visiting another crime scene, you. Call. Me.”
Seriously, this again? Why won’t he give it a rest already?
“I don’t think so.”
“This isn’t up for debate, Miss Sinaga. Nor is this an open discussion.
I don’t care if you call me, text me, email me, or send a letter by fucking carrier pigeon, you are going to tell me.
” A growl rumbles through his chest as he speaks, puncturing through every word to give it a serrated edge. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Sinaga?”
Maybe I should be scared. I probably should be livid beyond measure that he’s still trying to dictate my life. But instead a low, keening moan starts at the back of my mind because of how adamant he is to keep me safe.
It’s wrong for my blood to heat. Wrong for my stomach to tighten under his deadly gaze. Wrong that I want to grip his shirt and slam my lips against his, let him feel what he was looking at seconds ago.
I nod once even though I know I’m lying to him. I’ll never tell him. I’m not sure if it’s because I want to push his buttons or because I’ve burdened enough people in my life and it’s selfish of me to drag another person into it.
He grunts his approval, gesturing to his computer and changing the subject fast enough to leave me spinning. “Your assignment.”
The mask from earlier is back in place. The rug has been pulled from beneath me, and I’m sitting on my ass like a dumbfounded idiot. My brain hiccups, reeling left and right as I try to make sense of the last few minutes.
I clear my throat and angle myself sideways so I can see the computer screen against the wall. “Yes, of course.”
My pulse hammers as I fidget with the cushion, cycling through everything he’s said. The more I think about it, the more insane I feel. He can’t possibly have feelings for me.
“You’ve improved.” He says it like an afterthought.
What?
“Thank you,” I say automatically. I’m too shaken to register what he’s talking about.
“The surroundings tell their own story of the character without distracting from the frame’s focal points.” Maddox gestures toward the abundance of cleaning supplies amongst the mess on the screen.
Right. My assignment.
I heeded his advice, but maybe I took it too far.
“The color scheme is more appropriate for your Pink Ink concept and makes the pop of color less jarring. The contrast of warm and cool tones in the frame shows the emotional polarity between rage and distance.”
My nails dig into the fabric. The but is going to drop any second now. He’s going to pull a one-eighty on me and tell me how bad the lighting is, or how parts of it are poorly framed.
He doesn’t.
Just like last time, we watch the short film together, and he instructs me on the ways to turn my work from good to great. Small nuances that I wouldn’t have caught, like a different choice of prop, or spending a couple of seconds longer in a certain scene to create more suspense.
Maddox pauses where the killer is carving the victim up with his blade in the pattern of a skeleton. “You’re murdering him with far too delicate a touch.”
“That’s like saying there’s no beauty in death.”
I’m transfixed when his lips curl into a half smile. It’s such a rare sight that I take a mental snapshot of it and tuck it away somewhere safe.
Then he leans forward and catches a lock of my hair. I become paralyzed. His finger never brushes my skin as he slowly tucks the strand behind my ear. Then he jerks his hand away, as if he couldn’t help what he did, and goes back to playing the footage.
The blush that blazes across my face reignites the forgotten ache in my core. I can’t concentrate on anything else he says after that, or get myself to give a shit about the composition or the framing or the goddamn lighting.
This is how it started in my dream. Maddox invited me into his office, cozied up to me on the couch to watch my assignment, then one thing led to another, and we were kissing. Then the clothes came off, and the lights in my head flickered when he pushed himself inside me.
My attention catches on the orange tip of an EpiPen poking out of his bag. I’m too wound up to think any of this through logically, because why does Maddox have an EpiPen as well?
“Do you have any allergies?” I blurt, derailing his spiel.
His forehead wrinkles. “Not unless you count my allergy to idiots, then no.”
I’m not crazy. He kicked that student out for me. He implemented a nut-free rule for me.
I frown, remembering the latest crime scene I visited—where the victim had almonds shoved down his throat. It feels so fundamentally wrong. But familiar. A little bell goes off in my head. I almost snort at the absurd thought that Maddox Shaw might be my killer.