Page 118 of Twisted Ties
Stone has hurt me. He tried to rip those memories from my mind on Founders’ Night. He chained me to the bed in that motel. He dumped a pile of manure in my face. Not to mention all the times he’s laughed in my face too.
So what if he looked at me back there with tenderness, with … reverence? So what if he pulled me from those nightmares and soothed me in his arms? So what if he pleasured me and never asked for anything in return? So what?
It doesn’t undo all the lies. All the cruelness.
I need to give this more thought and more time. I need to stop being a horny mess because that will only land me in trouble.
I weave my way towards the mansion, practicing the story I’m meant to be telling the principal about my whereabouts, and trying my best not to dwell on those newly unlocked memories. As I approach the mansion, I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I almost walk straight into the solid frame of Spencer Moreau.
“Oh sorry,” I mumble, frowning when I realize who it is. Then I frown even harder. He’s dressed in his school uniform, even though it’s the weekend. But that’s not the cause of my frown. He looks awful. His skin has a sickly sheen to it, there are scratches and bruises over his face and down his neck, and a large chunk of hair is missing from the side of his scalp. “Oh my god, what happened to you?” I can’t help but yelp.
Did he get into a fight with Tristan? Is that why they’re both looking beaten up? Or were the two of them in a fight together with someone else? And why haven’t they healed their injuries?
“Nothing,” he mutters. He hesitates, eyes flicking over my form. “You were attacked? By the werebeast?”
I guess good news travels fast.
“Yes.”
“Were you … hurt?”
I scowl at him. “If you’re asking me if I am now infected with the were curse, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
Is it my imagination or do his shoulders slacken? Probably because he is in fact disappointed by this information.
“And you weren’t hurt?” he asks.
I peer up at the mansion, remembering my cover story. “No, I was hurt a little. Professor Stone was treating me all yesterday and I’m feeling better now.”
He looks at me with confusion. “Professor Stone?”
I decide I don’t want to stick around for anymore interrogation and step around him, hurrying towards the mansion.
He didn’t seem convinced by that story. I hope the principal will be.
The infirmary is not somewhere I’ve ever been. I find it spread out across the whole of the basement floor of the mansion, big enough to be a hospital wing with all its many beds. I don’t see why it needs to be so large, especially as the place is completely devoid of any patients. Maybe that’s why the matron comes bustling out of her nurse’s station with such enthusiasm when I step through the door.
“Are you unwell?” she says eagerly.
“I’m Rhianna Blackwaters. I was attacked by the–”
“Werebeast. Yes, I was expecting to see you much sooner. But I understand Professor Stone saw to your treatment.” She says this a little stiffly as if she isn’t happy with his obvious interference into her domain.
“Yes, that’s right, but the principal asked that I come and get checked out by you.”
The matron smiles at me. She has rosy cheeks, and her white starched uniform stretches over her round figure.
“Quite right. Follow me Miss Blackwaters.”
She leads me to the last bed on the end row where several machines wait lined up against the wall and draws a blue curtain around us.
“Strip off and pop this on,” she hands me a very unattractive-looking hospital gown, “and let’s get you checked out. I’ll wait out here. Call me when you’re done.”
I strip down like she requests, noticing I have a collection of love bites on my chest and probably on my neck too. I hope she’ll mistake those for injuries and not what they really are.
When I’m dressed in the gown, I call her back in. She spends a long time inspecting the places I tell her the werebeast injured me, reluctantly admiring Stone’s handiwork. Then she hooks me up to various machines, testing my blood pressure, temperature and other things I don’t understand.
“We don’t appear to have your medical record,” she mutters as she listens to my heart.
