Ray Maddox
The seat still smells like vanilla and hellfire.
Back row, third from the window. Her seat.
The one no one's ever dared to breathe near, let alone sit in. But today? I'm sprawled across it like I paid the fucking rent here. Legs wide. Hoodie loose over a tee I barely bothered to throw on. Pen spinning in my fingers, but I haven't written a single word.
Because I'm not here for class.
I'm here for her.
Sky Valen.
Black dress, cigarette mouth, curse-word poetry Sky Valen.
Last night, she kissed me like I was the last goddamn man on earth. Dragged me into the shadows of that rooftop with nails in my neck and a warning on her lips.
"Don't fall in love with me, Maddox."
Too late.
The taste of her lip gloss is still stuck in my teeth.
And now I'm sitting in her territory, practically daring her to kill me for it.
Twenty minutes into class and no sign of her. Half the room keeps glancing at me like I've lost my goddamn mind.
"She's gonna murder him."
"Does he know what he's doing?"
"He's either stupid or suicidal."
They're not wrong.
I'm still licking the bruises she left on my collarbone, and I'd do it all over again if she gave me even half a look.
Then the door opens.
And time fucking stops.
Sky strides in like sin wrapped in black leather. Hair all the way to her knees, jet black, loose, wild. Her eyes sweep the room like she owns every square inch of it—which, technically, she does. In those heels, she's six feet of pure threat with a vanilla oat latte in her hand like it's a weapon.
My pulse jumps.
The drink's all whipped cream and sugar, dessert in the disguise of caffeine—just like her. Pretty. Sweet. Addicting. And dangerous as hell.
She sees me.
Stops.
I swear her jaw tics. Her eyes narrow.
Oh, she's pissed.
Good.
I want her like this—furious, flustered, biting back last night with every ounce of that Valen pride.
I lift my gaze slowly. Drag it from her latte, up her bare legs, over the slits in that goddamn tight skirt she wore last night, to the fire in her eyes.
"Morning, princess," I murmur, loud enough for the row in front to hear.
She doesn't even blink. "You're in my fucking seat."
I lean back, smirk creeping across my lips. "Didn't see your name on it."
"You want me to write it in your blood?"
"Depends. Can I use your lipstick?"
The whispers spike again. This whole class is seconds from turning into a live audience.
Her grip tightens around the coffee like she's picturing it scalding me alive.
"Move. Now."
I tap my thigh.
"Or," I say casually, "you're free to sit on my lap. I don't mind."
That gets a reaction. Her lips part. Her eyes blaze.
She's furious.
She's flustered.
She's gorgeous.
And last night, she moaned in my mouth like she wanted to carve her name into my fucking bones.
She steps toward me—slow, calculated—and leans in. Hair falling forward like a curtain of silk, brushing my arm. Her voice is low and venom-laced.
"You really think you can fuck me one night and sit on my throne the next?"
I tilt my head, just enough for our mouths to be inches apart.
"Oh, sweetheart," I whisper, "we didn't just fuck."
Her breath hitches. Just a little. Just enough.
"We nearly broke the damn city," I add, voice rougher now. "And if I remember right, you said my name like a fucking prayer."
She huffs, shakes her head like she's disgusted—and steps over my legs instead of around, her thigh brushing mine as she does. She takes the seat beside me, face blank, murder in her silence.
We sit there for a beat. One heartbeat. Two.
She sips her coffee like she isn't planning my death.
I watch her lips wrap around the straw, and holy fuck—my brain short-circuits.
"You're not going to talk to me?" I murmur.
She exhales, all sugar and smoke.
"Die, Maddox."
I grin. "Already dead, baby."
She glances at me.
"No," she mutters. "Dead men don't still taste like regret and sex."
Oh, she wants war?
She'll fucking get it.