Page 74 of Sweet Poison

My heart stutters in my chest as I watch him. I can’t help but notice the sadness etched on his face as he plays. There’s so much sadness in his eyes, a deep loneliness that wasn't there this morning.

Crack.

I feel my heart breaking for him.

The moonlight shines down on him, allowing me to see him clearer as I get closer. He’s wearing a snug white tee, the fabric hugging his muscular frame, teaching every line and curve of his large body. The tattoos on his arms catch the light, swirling black designs that seem to tell his story. I trace the lines in my mind, imagining the tales behind each inked mark, each one a symbol of something he’s been through.

His black sweatpants hang low on his hips, casual yet effortlessly stylish, and the high-end slides he wears add an air luxury. Even in a casual outfit, he exudes the same larger than live energy he does when he’s wearing his all black suits.

I whisper to myself, “Who hurt you, sweet man?” My chest aches as I watch him.

As if sensing me, Madden pauses, his fingers stilled on the strings, the notes flowing in the air, like a question left unanswered. For a long moment, the space between us feels thick, almost electric.

His gaze finally meets mine. His eyes, dark and distant, flicker with a sadness that steals my breath. I rub my chest, willing the pain to go away but it is useless. He’s obviously hurting and so am I. “You followed me…” he slurs, clearly drunk.

There’s something in the way he says it— like a question, like he’s surprised I’m here. Does he think no one cares about him? The thought breaks my heart even more.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should step closer, but something about the way he’s looking at me draws me forward. I take a seat on the grass next to him and say nothing. I sit there quietly and just exist with him.

Because nothing sounds more beautiful and wonderful than simply existing with Madden Hunt.

The silence stretches between us as he takes another sip from the bottle. Why is he drinking? Is he in that much pain that he needs alcohol to numb him? I can feel his pain and it’s enough for me to break the silence.

“Who hurt you?” I whisper. “Who hurt you, sweet man?” I ask again.

He freezes, the bottle pausing midway to his lips. I can see the flicker of emotions cross his face—anger, and sadness. He sets the bottle down slowly, the sound echoing in the quiet.

“Life,” he replies, his voice low and gravelly, a rasp that cuts through my heart like a knife. “Life fucked me up, fairy.”

The weight of his words settles deep like a stone in my chest. I want to reach out and touch him, to show him he’s not alone, but I hold back, afraid that if I do he’ll shut me out.

“What do you mean?” I ask, hoping to peel back the layers of his guarded heart.

He runs a hand through his black as the night hair, tugging at the strands with force. His eyes flicker to mine, and they look vulnerable before he’s back to his guarded self.

“Let’s just say, while you were coddled and loved on,” he says, his voice bitter but laced with sadness, “I was trying to not die every single day of my fucking miserable life.”

Crack.

The pain in my chest intensifies with every broken word out of his mouth.

I knew things weren’t easy for him. Although Mom and Dad kept Madden's situation to themselves not wanting to share something that wasn't theirs to, I could see how bad it was in the way he didn't trust my parents and how he was always on guard as if expecting the worst, I just didn't know how bad it really was until I was older and overheard my parents talking about the boy they couldn't save.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask quietly, knowing I might be pushing too hard. But I want to understand him, help him heal and carry his pain.

Madden takes another swig from the bottle, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenched. He sets it down on the grass beside him. “My past is ugly, Wild One. Don’t want that shit touching you.”

I shake my head, moving closer with caution, careful not to spook him. “Nothing about you could ever be ugly,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.

I hear the soft breath he takes in, like I’ve caught him off guard. He looks up, surprise flickering across his features, and for a heartbeat, the world shifts. I can see the battle within him—the urge to pull away, to shut down, and push me away trying to protect himself. He had the same look every time I got too close when we were kids.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says with a bitter laugh, his voice low, broken. “I’m broken.”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I do my best to hold them back. “We’re all broken, Madden.” I say softly. “It’s our broken pieces that make us real. Those tiny broken pieces make us beautiful.”

He stares at me for a second that feels like a thousand lifetimes, studying me as if searching for lies. He takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the ground as he gathers his thoughts.

“You want my ugly pieces, Willow?” he asks, his voice rough, eyes still fixed on the grass beneath us.

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