Page 29 of Pink Ink

Whatever threat she heard must pass because she rises to her full height, blows out a breath, and resumes her investigation.

I slump against the wall with a sigh. This game we’re playing is far too dangerous. Not only could her life be on the line, but Spencer’s freedom too.

And yet, I stand here and watch. Enraptured by her every move.

The gods are testing me, and I’m failing. Staying still is like fighting the call of a siren. Unable to help myself, I grab my phone and take a photo of her through the window.

For insurance purposes, of course.

Not for me to look at later.

Really, she should be thanking me for this kill. The location was picked specifically for the view into the house, the low likelihood of interruption, and because it’s a safer neighborhood. I’d rather not have her death on my conscience.

The corners of my lips twitch upward when she bumps into the table and scrambles to stop things from falling. I’d wager that she’ll drop out of my class the second she realizes who and what I am, whichwould be so unfortunate since I’ve found myself rather enjoying our interactions. Not to mention that it’s profoundly pathetic how many times I’ve watched the short film she submitted three weeks ago. She has real talent.

I never wanted a fan or recognition for my murders. Even if some of the kills were ordered by Shepherd, the methods of their deaths were solely for me and my art. If the media catches wind of my masterpieces, great. If they don’t, I couldn’t care less.

But watching someone—her—admire my kills? Taking videos and reimagining it to be watched on-screen?

When I was younger, I enjoyed studying people’s expressions of admiration as they viewed my art. I’d try to decipher what they were thinking or simply bask in my inflating ego. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything remotely similar.

No one has looked at my murders before. No one has understood it for the art that it is. But she has. Little Miss Reyna.

I want to know what it means each time a divot forms beneath her brows, and when she tips her head to the side. Is it curiosity or confusion? If she taps her fingers against the camera, does it mean she has a critique? How does the blood splatter on the wall make her feel? Is she repulsed? Intrigued? At which point does the inspiration come?

And could she stay like that? Teeth clamped on her bottom lip with the slightest crease at the corners of her eyes as she surveys the room. Could she remain perfectly stilljust like thatso I can transfer it to paper? Immortalize her with graphite to sate the urge to touch.

My fingers itch to wrap around a pencil. I’m hardly sure whether I’d be able to capture her curiosity. Trap it into a single moment where the bronze threads in her irises shine with the flicker of a fire. Or how the golden strands of her hair contrast against the dark ones, framing her perfectly symmetrical face.

How is one meant to make a masterpiece out of a masterpiece?

My heart stalls when she takes a photo of the cathedral ornament on the windowsill. She noticed.

Fate truly has a sick sense of humor, because the person who tore into my craft and disrespected me in my own classroom is the sole reason I don’t currently feel like a failed artist.

She looked me dead in the eyes and called me out on my shit. Usually people do one or the other, never both at the same time. Yet she’s done itseveraltimes now, fixing those damn brown eyes on me, and moving her full lips as if she were the succubus history has always warned men about.

It’s agonizing that one person can have so much power.

The truth is, I’m fascinated.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been fascinated by anything, and I’d rather that it had not been my student.

Reyna moves with an untrained elegance. Her steps are sure yet hesitant, similar to how she kept her chin up while hiding her trembling hands behind her back when we had our altercation. It’s admirable. It would make her more endearing if it weren’t for the fact that most of our interactions involved verbal sparring.

It’s awfully hypnotic to watch. Knowing she’s here for me makes it all a truly heady experience.

By heady, I mean that I’m developing a migraine from the mixed emotions.

I’m not a good man as it is, and that short brown skirt she’s wearing is testing me. She’s paired it with tights, white socks, a camisole over a turtleneck. Then there’s that damn leather harness that serves no practical function but for me to grab on to and fuck her over the spot where I killed a man to get the truth from her.

The outline of a tattoo I can’t make out peeks through the thin pantyhose every time she bends over. I hate not knowing what it is. Before today, I’d only noticed the speared sacred heart on her forearm, and it’s utterly fucking maddening how desperate I am to see what other pieces of art she’s hiding from me.

I have no right to imagine my student naked. Thinking about how her tattooed thighs would look squeezing my head while she screams is far beyond the realm of acceptability.

How ironic that I frequently engage in murder but draw the line at fucking my student.

I can’t afford to lose my job if I want to keep Spencer out of trouble and still be able to do art as I please. Staying away from Miss Sinaga is the logical thing to do.