Page 9 of Shattered Stars
I consider skipping away without it but there’s a chance the campus bus driver will want to see my permission slip and besides I’ve been in enough trouble these last few weeks. I want to avoid any more for a while if I can. A long, long while.
All this means I’m going to have to swallow my pride and go beg Tristan Kennedy. Which I hate. Which I really, really hate. The idea makes me sick.
After I’ve showered, thrown on my usual attire of jeans and a t-shirt and braided my hair, I give myself a stern talking to in the mirror. Winnie’s already gone off to spend her day with Trent, taking Pip with her, so there’s no one to hear my little pep talk.
“I am not going to take any of his crap. I will remain calm. I will not let him get to me.” My reflection catches my attention. My cheeks are still rosy, my eyes still shining. I realize I look so much healthier than I did when I arrived. With a self-reassuring nod at my reflection, I head to the Venus common room, assuming Tristan will be in his usual lair. To my surprise, when I step among the half-comatose and groaning bodies, passed out over the double bed, the sofas and even the floor, I find Tristan Kennedy isn’t among them.
Strange.
It seemed like last night’s celebration morphed into one giant orgy – one I’d assume Tristan would be right in the middle of.
I step over a half-dressed boy snoring by the door and back out into the gardens, pulling out my phone as I do.
If going to see him was bad, sending him a text message somehow feels worse. God, I despise this power he has over me and the way he likes to abuse it. But I want to see Azlan – I need to see him – so once again I’m prepared to swallow my pride.
I type him a brief, perfunctory text message requesting permission. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a simple ‘yes’ by reply which might be enough to satisfy any bus driver and will be proof enough I have permission.
Of course, this is Tristan Kennedy. Possibly the biggest jerk on the planet. He tells me if I want a permission slip, I’m going to have to come get it. From his room.
I growl reading that text.
And where ishis highness’s room?
I type out,then remember my promise to myself about keeping calm. I scrub that message out, sending a text that reads ‘Directions, please’ instead.
As if it was in any doubt, Tristan’s room turns out to be in the most expensive and luxurious of dorm buildings and his room is the penthouse itself. I huff and roll my eyes as I plod up the staircase. No wonder he tops the class at everything. It’s not exactly hard when you’re dripping in wealth and luxury.
I hover outside his door, noting all the handwritten notes pinned there, and debate whether there is a simpler, less dangerous way to get to Los Magicos. Like walking. Or flying on a broomstick.
Before I can change my mind though and walk away, the door swings open and Tristan is there in the doorway, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants. Seriously?! Does this dude ever wear clothes?
Immediately, my stomach somersaults and my bond pulls towards him, a vicious tug that’s hard to deny. He’s so good looking that sometimes it’s hard to look at him. Like the sun, he’s blinding. I can’t be confused about this, surely? But I must be.
His lack of clothes is clearly a ploy to intimidate me or make me feel uncomfortable or basically torture me. I won’t fall for it.
“Come in,” he says, turning his back on me and sloping off into his vast room. As he does, my eyes run over his form of their own accord. His skin is golden and packed with solid muscle, his shoulders broad, his pants slung low, his feet bare. An ink trails over his shoulder – a tiger leaping, its eyes emerald-green like Tristan’s. It stares back at me, baring its teeth.
I can’t drag my eyes off it – or him. But then I see the dark outline of a bruise tracing the edge of his shoulder blade. It’s thesize of my palm and painted a mixture of blacks and purples. It makes me wince. Is that from the dueling match? And if so, why hasn’t it been healed? There are no other marks on him.
I don’t move from the doorway. His scent hangs heavy in the air. Stepping inside his room would be like stepping into a tiger’s lair.
“I’m fine where I am, thanks.” I glance towards the bed. Somewhere he must seduce all those countless girls. My stomach twists and that memory of him with that girl in the common room flashes through my mind. “Can I just have my slip, please?”
He halts, then spins on his toes, grabs my wrist and hauls me into his room, slamming the door behind him.
I let out an angry huff, already failing to keep my promise to myself.
Being in his room feels intimate and dangerous. His territory. There isn’t even anyone else on this floor and his unmade bed is just there by the giant window, unmade and rumpled.
I expect him to adopt his usual bored posture, laying out on the bed, or slumping low on a chair. Instead, he stands to face me in the middle of the room, squaring up to me. I don’t know how to feel.
The room, I note, is so bare it’s hard to believe it’s actually occupied. There’s not even a picture of his family resting on his desk or a trophy balancing on a shelf. In fact, the only hint that the room is occupied at all is that messy bed and his dueling jersey slung over a chair.
I thought his room would be an ostentatious display of who he is. Overrun with all those awards, dripping with expensive belongings. I half expected the walls to be lined with gold and decorated with pictures of his beautiful face.
“You head butted Summer Clutton-Brock, busted her nose.” Is it my imagination or does he say that with just the faintest hint of admiration?
I shrug.
