Stain (Stain #1)(47)

Maddox reels like he’s been struck, his expression going from complete desolation to utter horror before reining it all in. The only indication of how badly he’s affected by his brother’s words is him nearly stumbling twice as he takes steps back.

“Fuck you, Noah.” He turns and walks away, and I don’t waver for a second in taking off after him.

It’s only Noah’s call that stops me mid-run, “He’s…he’s got a lot of broken pieces, Aylee. Maybe too many to put back together. Just be careful. He might cut.”

Without much thought, I answer back, “I hope he does.” And I hope it’s deep enough to scar. I want him so deep mending the wound will be impossible. He’ll bring the shards and I’ll provide the flesh, and we’ll bleed the stains slicking our souls.

***

I find him raging in the stairwell between the first and second floor. He’s striking the gray brick concrete wall with everything he has. There’s a wet, cracking noise that sounds awful to the ears. He doesn’t seem to care as he throws his entire body behind every bare-knuckle punch, stripping flesh and smearing blood all over the wall in front of him. His punches are brutal and relentless. Mindlessly he keeps at it, falling further into the trance of self-mutilation, grappling with demons that blind him to everything but how good it feels to hurt himself. I don’t know his turmoil, but I understand his agony.

I’m aware of the risk I take. Of the danger I put myself in when I edge toward him. I shouldn’t be putting myself in the way like this, but the thought of doing nothing, the idea of watching him hurt so much is so unbearable it’s like a vise tightening around my chest. My airway momentarily constricts, clogging my throat, my pulse galloping at warp speed beneath my skin but all there is for me is Maddox. I take a deep breath and wait to find the precise moment before wrapping my arms around his middle and setting the side of my face against his rigid back. He doesn’t let me hold him for long. He doesn’t take any comfort from me. He stiffens. And then he reacts. He grabs my forearm, drags me around his body, and slams me up against the blood-smeared wall. It all seems like one move, done so swiftly that I barely have time to gasp. He shoves his knee between my legs, pushes it so far up I’m forced to straddle his muscular thigh.

I’m afraid to look at him, but he takes what little choice I have away when he sweeps a hand behind the curtain of my hair and his fingers curl at the nape of my neck. The slightest bit of pressure from those fingers has me instantly meeting his rapier gaze. He looks rabid. So menacing that a rightful dose of fear plunges down my spine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

That savage growl is all the warning he gives me before he lowers his head to kiss my mouth. But it’s so much more than just a kiss. It’s punishing and rough and urgent and imbued with blazing fury. He grabs my face, desperately holds my head with grip-like fingers, and spills every last bit of his rampant emotions into me. I taste how raw he’s feeling in that instant. I taste Maddox, dark, hungry, and primal. It’s a flavor potent enough to start an addiction.

I revel.

I float.

I breathe as he breathes.

He’s the wind and I’m the tree, bending and swaying to his all-encompassing force.

Lightheaded and overcome with need, I can only mewl and whimper at the hot and slick carnality of his kiss.

“I knew it,” he pants harshly against my wet, swollen mouth, his voice raspy yet strong, his thumb playing at the corner of my lips. Slowly sliding it back and forth across my bottom lip. “Fuck. I f*cking knew if I ever kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.” He grasps my jaw, digs his fingers in my skin so my mouth forms an O. “I can’t f*cking stop kissing you.” He takes possession of my mouth again, and it’s wet bliss. His firm but supple tongue tangles in hot, languid strokes against mine, his teeth nipping at my lower lip before he dips back inside my mouth to take his fill.

I know I’m no good at it, because Maddox Moore is my first real kiss. But I follow his lead, tentatively touching my tongue to his, doing what feels right. What feels good. When I make to wrap my arms around his neck, he jumps away from me like I’ve torched him. He stands at a short distance with flaring nostrils and a heaving chest. He looks like he just ran a marathon, and the way he’s standing now seems like he’s ready to go again.

We stand for a long time like this. Just staring at each other, our labored breaths echoing in the stairwell.

“Look…”

“We should fix your hands,” I interrupt. I’m almost too sure of what he’s going to say. I can read it across the features he’s trying to get under control. He wants to push me away. Sever this thin thread of a connection we’ve made. He wants to retreat because I’m seeing him at a weak point. I’m seeing him vulnerable and I can safely assume that vulnerability for Maddox Moore is simply out of the question. Making yourself vulnerable to someone is like giving them the weapon, and showing them exactly where and how they can hurt you. But hurting Maddox is the last thing I’d ever want to do. And even then, even if it came down to causing him pain, I’d hurt myself infinite times before I ever hurt him.

“Aylee…”

Ignoring him, I head downstairs. “Mr. Kauffman keeps a first aid kit in the pottery area in the back of the art room.”

I have déjà vu when I look up at him from the bottom of the staircase. We’ve done this scene before. Only he was the caretaker. The night after Tim hit me. Maddox had followed and cornered me in a stairwell just on the opposite side of school. He was there for me. Getting so angry on my behalf and yet somehow understanding that I needed his comfort more than anything else. Now the roles are reverse and I have the chance to comfort him.