Page 103 of Pink Ink

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 fearhim.

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.