Page 89 of Pink Ink

I’ll still scale to eight out of ten.

And for the finale, I ask, “When did you decide that the Shadow killed him?”

“Yesterday.”

Yesterday?As in, before she arrived at the scene? Just fromphotos?

She casually lifts her shoulders, not remotely smug.

“The victim’s name is Jeremy. He owns fifty percent of the shares in a restaurant calledAfterworld. The photos of him online always have him wearing a signet ring, and from what I could find, he had a phoenix engraved on it. The creature often symbolizes life or rebirth. The penny, the missing hands, and the references to the afterlife—or lack thereof—aren’t just to insult him, the killer was sending a message. The future is in someone else’s hands.”

I stare at her, awestruck, hanging on to every word she says. No one—and I meanno one—would ever make that connection but her.

I am completely and utterly enraptured by Reyna Sinaga. She sees me, she knows who I am, recognizes how I think, sees the same picture as I do, even if she hasn’t connected all the dots.

She was made perfect for me. That is not an opinion or a feeling or some misguided notion from rose-tinted sunglasses. That is a fact.

Reyna Sinaga is perfect for me.

REYNA

Ninety-three minutes.

That’s how long I’ve spent questioning whether it would be fine to let my professor fuck me in front of the entire class.

I haven’t absorbed any information, nor have I been able to understand a single word Maddox has said—let alone a full sentence.

I was wound up after Maddox teased the ever-loving shit out of me on the subway. Because I’m apparently broken and entirely desensitized to murder, my libido decided that a crime scene was the right place to go into fucking heat all because my goddamn professor validated my fascination with a serial killer no one else believes exists.

Without thinking, I pull Maddox’s scarf higher to bring it closer to my nose. My core tightens as his scent fills my lungs. Even my bra feels too harsh against my nipples. Every time I move, I’m reminded of the tear he’s made in my tights and how soaked my underwear still is.

My attention falls to my empty Word document before going back to Maddox. He’s just so—infuriating. He’s going to make me go crazy, and I think Iamcrazy for thinking that we may genuinely be compatible.

He may be eleven years older and my professor, but once I graduate, neither will matter. We’ll still share the same broken edges that somehow fit together.

And as for the rest of him?Attractivedoesn’t begin to cut it.

The black sweater he’s thrown over his white button-up is clinging to his chest and shoulders, tapering at his waist, down to the belt I know costs enough to make me cry. His dark-gray pants stretch and hug histhighs whenever he paces the classroom. And is it just me, or is the fabric straining over his bulge more than usual?

Maddox looks like an academic god when he has a blazer on. Without it, he’s pure danger. The Clark Kent type that causes the crime. To think the same hand he’s gesturing with was between my thighs a couple of hours ago.

I shift in my seat, eyelids growing heavy as my focus drifts back to the bulge in his pants. He feels it, doesn’t he? The pull between us.

“Miss Sinaga?”

I blink. The blood rushes to my face. Half the class is staring at me. I clear my throat and sit straighter. “What was that?”

Nicole gives me a look of pity as I try to stop imagining my professor doing indecent things to me.

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his lips, and I glare at him. Jerk. “I was asking what the intention was behind the tonal contrast.”

“Um.” It takes far too long for my brain to process work.

Someone snorts a laugh behind me, and I fumble, dropping my pen on the floor. My skin burns hotter as I scramble to pick it up. I suck in a sharp breath to regulate my breathing only for it to be thrown out when I look up to find Maddox glaring at whoever it was who was amused by my struggling. Even I’d wither under that stare.

I exhale and try to focus on the projector. The screenshot is fromHereditary, a horror film that’s hailed by critics and hated by the public—it’s by the same man who directedMidsommar, one of my favorite movies—a fact I happened to have shared with Maddox in the cab, right before he went down on me.

On the screen is a woman, played by Toni Collette, sitting alone in a warmly lit workshop filled with golden hues, while the rest of the house recedes into shadows behind her.