Page 32 of Pink Ink

For now, I can sate my curiosity, see how she thinks, and—

No, I need to turn left to go home to my townhouse to drink myself into a stupor. I have to catch up on sleep and pull myself together so I can be ready for my exhibition. Reyna Sinaga isn’t my problem and never will be. She’s an adult who can make her own decisions regarding her safety. If she chooses to be an admirer of my kills and walk alone at night, that’s her prerogative.

She’s no one. Nothing.

A rude student with attitude problems who just so happens to be attractive.

An irritant. Inconsequential. A nuisance.

She doesn’t matter to me.

She and I have no business talking to each other.

I jog down the stairs and turn right.

Maybe I’ll look into getting Reyna removed from my class so I can escape the spell she’s cast on me. Witchcraft is the only explanation for it.

I don’t want anything to do with her. Any person who speaks the way she does and visits crime scenes for fun is problematic, and the last thing that I need is more problems.

This is a bad idea. I know it. The gods know it. My dead uncle knows it. (May he rest in peace. A literal knife in the back is a bad way to go.) So tell me why I stalk toward her, like the absolute fucking idiot that I am.

A complete tosser who’s been picking on her in class just because I want to hear her voice. She never puts her hand up to answer willingly, and she talks too quietly with Nicole for me to catch what she’s saying, and I’ve been utterly deprived of the sound of her voice unless I call her out in the middle of a lecture.

She was flustered the first time. Irritated the second. Now, she just glares.

Not once have I needed to correct her answers.

Reyna is the best student in this class. Bradford was a fool for not seeing it.

That same craving hits me as I creep closer to her. The need to hear her voice.

An odd sensation that holds juvenile familiarity vibrates through my veins. It changes the rhythm of my breaths and the thud of my pulse. I haven’t experienced anything like it since primary school, when the girl I had a crush on sat next to me. A fuckingcrush.

This is averyfucking bad idea.

This needs to stop.Right now.

The sandstone pavement scrapes the bottom of my shoes as I turn to leave. I should never have approached her to begin with—both here and at the art gallery. This ends now. There is to be no further interaction with Reyna from this moment on.

“Mr. Shaw?”

Fuck.

The unwelcome sensation in the pit of my stomach turns molten, heating my body by two degrees.

That’s the second time she’s called methat. I barely have a grip on my sanity as it is. If she calls meMr. Shawin her husky voice a third time, I’m going to kill the first person I see, no questions asked.

I’m a grown man getting hard from the sound of my star pupil’s voice. Someone once suggested that I need therapy. Perhaps it’s time to seriously consider that option.

The muscle in my jaw feathers as I turn around, facing the girl who’s unknowingly stalking me. All the air rushes from my lungs in one fell swoop.

Reyna Sinaga is breathtaking.

No,breathtakingisn’t a strong enough word. I could spend a lifetime scouring every dictionary in existence, and I would never find a descriptor that would come close to what she is.

Words are caught in my throat as I take her in. She’s a whirlwind of sharp edges and soft curves—harsh jaw, button nose, a cupid’s bow pointed enough to cut, and round, almond eyes.

I’ve always known that she was stunning. It was the first thought that crossed my mind when she looked my way at the art gallery.