Page 61 of Pink Ink

I scan the index in search of any keywords that might work, going through book after book until I reach the bottom of the pile.The Birth of Knowledge and Power. If there weren’t a picture of the school’s crest on the front, I’d think this is a random philosophy book.

Within seconds of going through the index, I find a word that raises a red flag in my head:beekeeping.

I flick to the page and find the segment I’m looking for. My eyes dart over the words, mind racing and making connections worthy of a hardcore conspiracy theorist.

There’s an image of a group of men in suits gathered around a single beehive in front of the fountain in the courtyard. According to this, when Cresswell first began three centuries ago, a group of students, academics, and local officials came together to establish a beekeeping group and donated the honey to locals in the area.

They would meet every week, and as the years progressed and more students enrolled, the men who began the club would go out to recruit new students to join. It was considered a great honor to be welcomed into the group. Supposedly, even the mayors, governors, and random business owners joined the beekeeping society—by invite only.

The men who were granted access were given honeycomb-shaped pins. I pull up the image of the victim, flip the page for the embossing in the alumni book, and peer at the pin fastened to the lapel of the man in the photo.

They’re a match. It’s the same layout, the same four hexagons. The placement of a bee.

I don’t think I could ever imagine Dad getting into beekeeping.

I think I’m losing it, because there’s no way I am thinking there might be a deadly group of beekeepers out there inNew Yorkof all places.

I’m more confused than I was an hour ago.

Christ, I think I’m getting a migraine. My eyes drift to the grandfather clock against one of the shelves. It’s a quarter to five. Fifteen minutes until my alleged meeting with Maddox.

Heaven help me.

I throw caution to the wind and buy another cup of coffee on the way to his office. My cup is empty by the time I get to his building, and my nerves are going completely haywire.

What could he possibly want to talk about? The incident with his brother? How he wants me to get into beekeeping? He hasn’t released the grades for the latest assignment. What if he’s going to tell me how horrifically I’ve done? What if this is the day I find out that I’m losing my scholarship?

I can’t afford the tuition, so I’ll be kissing my life goodbye, and I’ll never figure out what my dad was up to.

Maybe he’s decided to fail me after all. I’ll do extra assignments, clean his studio, grade papers, do his laundry, literallyanythinghe wants, and I’ll do it. Just as long as I don’t lose my scholarship.

Hell, I’m even willing to get on my hands and knees to beg for a resubmission.

No, bad Reyna.

I check my watch. Five o’clock on the dot.

It’s now or never.

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?”