Page 63 of Pink Ink

“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. Thebutis 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 rulefor me.

I frown, remembering the latest crime scene I visited—where the victim had almonds shoved down his throat. It feels so fundamentallywrong. But familiar. A little bell goes off in my head. I almost snort at the absurd thought that Maddox Shaw might be my killer.

Over eight million people live in New York. I’m not self-absorbed enough to believe that the snacks at the crime scene and the almonds were a reference to me. The only people who know about my allergy are Maddox and Kimi, and sure, I always have KitKats and a little bag of Cheetos on me, but it’s not like Maddox would know that.