Page 44 of Glutton for Punishment

“Stop.”

I look up into a somewhat familiar face, haloed by the bright setting sun.

Lucas, Maddox’s friend from the academy, steps forward in front of the guards.

He’s clearly in charge because the guards immediately step back.

His eyes sweep over us, calculating. Then they land on me, and I see it. The recognition. The shock.

“Someone get Maddox up here right now,” he says urgently to the guards, never taking his eyes off me.

***

I don’t have time to process or brace for it.

One second I’m standing there, barely holding myself together out of sheer stubbornness, and the next…

He’s there.

Maddox doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look at Lucas, doesn’t look at the guards, doesn’t look at anything except me. He crosses the distance between us, and I swear the air pressure changes, the way it does before a storm.

His face looks wrecked. “Arwen.” It comes out strangled.

And then his arms close around me—

Warm and solid. Almost possessive. My mind goes blank. Not quiet. Blank.

Like something that’s been screaming for weeks just had the air cut out of it. The feeling doesn’t creep in. It detonates. Every nerve ending I have lights up at once, and for one horrible, traitorous second, I forget every single reason this is a bad idea.

It’s like stepping too close to a flame and realizing too late you’re already burning. But the burning feels so good.

The bond settles into place like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. The constant strain under my skin eases weeks of pain and exhaustion. My shoulders drop and my knees almost give out.

The reality of our situation moves to the back of my mind as my body reacts.

My fingers fist into his shirt, gripping like I’ve been drowning and just found something solid. His chest is hard under my hands, steady and real. I can’t remember the last time I touched Maddox, but I’m positive it wasn’t this intimate.

Everything feels strange.

And everything around Maddox is dangerous. That hasn’t changed. I pull back and take the time to look up into his face. He looks like the same Maddox I remember.

Same short, black fade. Same hard jaw. He’s built the way I remembered— broad, corded, inked from forearm to knuckle—a body that has absorbed and delivered a lot of damage. His hands are around my arms now, pressing hard enough to bruise. Like he has no intention of letting go.

He looks the same, but he doesn’t feel like the same Maddox.

The powerful and controlled presence with sarcastic snark that I’m used to isn’t measuring up with the person before me. Like I’ve pried his shell off and can feel the deeper emotions.

I should pull away. Because this rush of feeling makes little sense. It’s foreign.

But I can’t.

Not right away.

My body soaks up his strength like a sponge as his men continue their work around us, questioning Atticus and the pilot. I let myself lean into it, into the strength, into the way everything inside me finally goes quiet.

I suck in a steady breath and shove that feeling down hard, forcing myself to step back before I forget who I am and lose myself.

His hands linger for half a second too long before they fall away, like he’s not convinced he should let go either.