Page 158 of Wild Thing

Kat blurts something in Russian to Marlow again, and they both burst out laughing.

Maddy stands with her back to them as she fixes her hair and visibly tries really hard not to laugh. She purses her full lips and bites the bottom one. And no, not because Kat’s laughter is contagious… The next time Kat says something in Russian, Maddy’s lips twitch in another smile.

My skin is thick as a python’s, cut, bruised, and weathered. But there are goosebumps…

Maddy, the Good Doer, huh? Who would’ve thought that the good girl of Zion has a secret no one saw coming?

I realize now what drew me to her in the first place—something hiding under her calmness and confidence, the dark past that can relate to the devil in me.

Maddy says goodbyes and leaves the restaurant, and my heart thuds so hard that even Carnage fights don’t compare to the amount of adrenalin that pumps through my veins when I follow.

Catching dangerous lies, finding out deep secrets, and learning others’ weaknesses is my hobby. There’s something unsettling in seeing little cracks on perfect surfaces, but inevitably, you touch them, and scratch them to see how deep they go.

Flaws are human nature. The Bible is not a manual on how to fight them but an encyclopedia on the wide range of human imperfections. You didn’t know you were a sinner? Go to church, they’ll open your eyes. Feeling happy? Open the holy scripture, it’ll let you know that you don’t have redemption.

Who knew that perfect Maddy has a crack?

I follow her in the dark for some time, then, making sure no one is around, I call her name.

She turns in surprise, but unlike others in my presence, especially at night, there’s no unease in her eyes, not even a tiny bit, never has been—that’s what startled me about her in the first place.

Her gaze acquires the intensity of someone too attracted to danger. It’s unusual and amusing—a girl, not afraid. It makes me want to push her farther, see what makes her afraid, which part of me will scare her if she ever got to know me better, and she will, soon—the anger that lashes out when someone gets too deep into my own cracks, or the number of people I’ve hurt, or the scars all over my body that tell monstrous stories.

“How are you?” I ask, stepping out of the shadows and slowly approaching her, coming close, closer yet, too close, testing her, my chest almost against hers as I step into her, which would’ve made any other person take a step back.

But she doesn’t budge, never does.

Interesting. Alright.

I take a tiny step back, giving her room.

“I’m good, Raven, how are you?”

What’s unusual is the subtle but obvious assertiveness in her tone. It has an edge that’s never there when she’s around others.Sweet soft-spoken Maddy, as Archer said. It’s her sweetness I crave and that very tiny edge that I want to dig deeper into, peel off her outer layer to see what’s underneath it.

When she’s alone with me, which only happened on a few occasions, I heard that dare in her voice. There’s no sweetness in it. Maybe, sexiness. A slight shift to a different personality, the one she hides from everyone else.

“I’m great,” I say.

The tension between us is palpable as we stand in front of each other like predator and prey, and I like it. She always looks me straight in the eyes as if challenging me. It surprises me and turns me on. I like that too.

“What makes this evening great?” she asks, that dare in her voice again.

You. Or what I’m going to do to you.She’ll find out soon enough.

“I watched you in the restaurant, Maddy.”

She blinks slowly and nods. “You did.” Not a question—sweet Maddy is too perceptive.

“Wondered what you were laughing about with Katura and Marlow.”

Her poker face is great. “Just a joke.”

I stretch my hand toward her face, waiting for her to pull back, but she doesn’t, doesn’t even acknowledge it, her eyes locked with mine the whole time. I brush my finger along a loose strand of her hair. Her eyes widen just a tiny bit at the touch, but even this overly inappropriate gesture doesn’t make her flinch or pull away.

Huh.

“A joke,” I echo, cocking my head as I study her. “Except, they spoke Russian.”

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