Page 111 of Glutton for Punishment

“Then they dragged me before my father. Paris standing beside him.” A short, humorless exhale. “I’ll never forget how she was smiling, like she had won a prize.”

My eyes water as I connect the dots.

“He told me she brought it to his attention. That I’d been communicating with my mother. Said Atticus spilled all my secrets to Paris. He was ashamed. He said it made me weak. And that he had taken care of it… and he was right. Even a couple of months later, when I snuck out to find the place she had told me she was staying. It was empty… I haven’t heard from her since.”

My chest feels like it caves in on itself the moment he finishes. I grab his hand back into mine, holding it tight.

“Atticus… what did Atticus say about it?” I ask, barely recognizing my voice.

Maddox’s eyes stay on mine as he nods his head and mumbles, “He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know?” I echo.

He grinds his teeth as he looks at the ceiling, shaking his head.

“He knows I was angry. That I cut him off. That I told him to go fuck himself. He assumed it was because he was spending more time with Paris. Paris dumped him not long after. Got what she wanted and moved on.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” I ask in a whisper. “Why wouldn’t you tell him what she did?”

“Because despite what you’ve seen, I’m not a monster, Arwen.”

Maddox’s gaze drops for a second before lifting again, steady and unflinching.

“It would’ve devastated him,” he continues. “Knowing what happened to my mom. Knowing what his decisions cost me, even if he didn’t mean it.”

His throat works once. “And I know he didn’t mean it. He was young and stupid and had a crush… he didn’t know yet how cruel my father could be.”

I want to cry over Maddox’s loss of his mother and best friend for stupid political maneuvering. I want to rage for Atticus, used and betrayed by a teenage crush. No one is bulletproof in this system’s power grab.

“He didn’t mean it, but Atticus broke my trust,” he says, rough. “When I look at him, all I see is what I lost. All I can hear are my mother’s last words. And that… I hate him for. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it. But I don't need to bury him in guilt.”

I stare at this beautiful bonded of mine with a heart of gold he has to keep tucked hidden beneath a violent exterior. All this time... he’s been protecting Atticus in his own way. Because that’s who he is. Loyal to a fault.

I don’t think. I just move as my hand lifts to his face, and I lean in to kiss him.

It’s not the desperate hunger of before, not the wildness that overtook us during our first kiss. Instead, it’s slow, heartbreakingly tender. He kisses me back like he’s afraid I’ll disappear mid-breath.

I shift, rising to straddle his lap without breaking the kiss. My knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands slide slowly down my waist, brushing my sides before settling on my hips. My tongue traces the seam of his lower lip, and he groans softly into my mouth. Fingers dig into the soft hollows above my thighs, pressing me down against the hard ridge of him.

A sharp, breathless sound escapes me as the hard ridge of his erection presses exactly where I need it most. His tongue finds my jaw and slowly travels up to my ear, flicking my earlobe once. Teeth close on the skin in a sharp nip that sends a jolt of pure sensation down my chest towards the peak of my nipple.

His fingers skim under the hem of my shirt, a silent question in his eyes. I nod, breath catching as he lifts the fabric over my head. The clasp of my bra giving way, his gaze never leaving mine—dark heat, wholly focused. His palms slide up my spine, leaving warm tingles. I feel the faint ridges of scars beneath his touch, but they’re only echoes now.

His hands trace up the column of my neck, finding the fine hairs at my nape. Fingers twist into the roots of my hair, with a gentle, claiming pressure as I arch into him, causing my nipples to brush against his chest. The electric contact causes us both still.

His gaze drops from my eyes, darkening as it travels down my throat, over my breasts, like he’s memorizing what he sees. The heat of his lips touches a small, jagged scar on my collarbone, reminding me of the arena fight where I earned it in 7th grade.

My eyes drift shut as his mouth moves from my collarbone, a slow, warm trail of wet heat that stops over the small dark spot just above my left breast. He lingers there, his breath a soft rhythm against my skin, before his tongue traces its shape. I feel the shift of his jaw as he explores further—the curve of my breast, the vulnerable hollow of my throat. Each touch leaves goosebumps, and it coils a deep tension low in my belly. I roll my hips against him, seeking friction, and he lets out a rough sound against my skin. Then his mouth is on my nipple, a slow, open-mouthed kiss that makes me melt.

Then, he bites it. The sharp sting after all the soft touches causes my hips to stutter forward on their own. My hands fly up to grip his hair, and the sound I make is embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

His pace changes. The world tilts, a sudden spin of weightlessness before my back meets the mattress. His mouth doesn’t leave mine, a deep, claiming kiss as his fingers find my nipples again, rolling them. The hard ridge of him presses insistently between my thighs through the denim.

His whisper is raw against my lips. “I can’t stand it any longer; I have to taste you.” Hand slide from my breast to my waist, fumbling for the button of my jeans. His mouth follows a burning trail down my sternum, a line of rough, rushed kisses heading south without hesitation.

He stops above the open button. His eyes find mine and hold there as he unzips my jeans and pulls them down. His fingers slip into the waistband of my panties and drag them down too, unhurried, before he straightens and just looks at me.

My hips lift off the bed on their own. His gaze doesn’t move.