Page 87 of Shattered Stars
“That isn’t a deal I’m prepared to make, Summer.”
The smile falls from her lips. “But why?” she says petulantly. “She isn’t even pretty. She has no family, no money, no friends.” I stare at her. “And she smells like pig shit!” she snaps.
“She is pretty,” I say.
“She’s cast some kind of spell on you, Tristan. Some kind of love potion … or charm. And you’re too caught up in it to see.” She steps towards me. “I can help you, help undo it.”
“There’s no spell. There’s no such thing.”
“She’s dangerous. She’s bewitched you …”
I don’t hear the rest of her words. The pig girl has bewitched me, just not in the way Summer thinks. It’s no spell, no charm, no potion. And yet, I am completely and utterly bewitched by her.
“I’m going to tell York,” she says, snapping me straight out of my reverie. “About the crimson magic.”
“You’re not,” I tell her firmly.
“You can’t stop me, Tristan Kennedy,” she says, tossing her hair and moving towards the door.
“I can.” I step forward, blocking her path, my voice deadly. “I’m not messing with you, Summer. This girl is important to me. If you tell anyone about what you know, if you hurt her one more time, I will kill you.”
She laughs again, although it’s a little nervous. She doesn’t want to believe I’m serious, but I am. Rhianna is my fated mate and I won’t let some silly spoiled bitch hurt her.
“Kill me? Right, sure you will.” I grab her arm again, this time squeezing so tightly she yelps and struggles against my hold. “You’re hurting me. Get off.”
“I’ll do a hell of a lot worse to you if you tell one other living soul, Summer, I promise you that.” With my free hand, I weave magic through the air, whispering an old incantation. One Spencer and I made long ago. A binding promise. “Now, do you promise me?” The magic shimmers between us waiting for her response. I shake her violently so she’s clear just how badly I could hurt her. “Do you promise to tell no one about this?”
Terror fills her eyes as the reality of her situation dawns on her and she understands that I am not kidding. I will kill her.
“I-I-I-I promise,” she says. The magic flashes, sealing the promise.
“Good.” I let her go, and she scuttles towards the exit just like those girls did earlier. “And Summer,” I say as she pushes against the door, “you understand what that was, don’t you? So don’t try anything clever. I will know if you break this binding promise.” I growl. “And so will you.”
When she’s gone, I stride right past the classrooms and up to my room, my heart still pounding in my chest, the image of that promise still shining before my eyes. I burst through the door and beeline straight for my desk, pulling open the top drawer and finding my stash of pre-rolled joints organized all neatly alongside my pencils. I pick one up and examine it, bringing itto my nose and sniffing. Then I replace it and try another, and another, till I choose one I’m satisfied with.
I open the palm of my left hand and let a flame dance across it, snaring the tip of my joint and rolling it between my thumb and finger until the end is glowing. Then I bring it to my lips and puff it lightly, once, twice, until the thing is burning properly. The smell of weed floats through the air and I can already feel the buzz before I’ve even sucked on the thing. I’ve been smoking far too many of these joints but I can’t help it. I feel like shit. The bond in my stomach a constant gnawing ache and my body painful like I’m ill with the flu. The weed helps.
I slink down into my chair, rocking it from side to side as I close my eyes and inhale the smoke, sucking it down into my lungs, the image of Pig Girl dancing in front of my closed eyes.
I huff and pull out one of those pencils from my drawer next, testing the sharpness of the nib. It’s not good enough and I spend the next minute grinding it in a pencil sharpener, the joint stuck between my lips. When I’m satisfied, I reach back inside the drawer for the final time, lifting the papers that lie inside until I find my pad buried beneath. I flick back the cover and stare down at the sketch. It’s about two-thirds done. I have the structure of her face, the shape of her eyes, the form of her mouth. I take a long drag of my joint, before dropping it into the ashtray on my desk. I spin the pencil around my fingers, eyes flicking over that face, then I brush my fingertips over her cheekbone, smudging the pencil lines, adding shadow and depth.
It’s like magic, like I’m touching her actual cheek. Soft, velvet. I touch the lips I’ve sketched next, remembering what those felt like pressed to mine.
Fuck, I want her so badly, it’s unbearable.
I’m hard just thinking about her. Thinking about how her body quivered under mine. Thinking about how she rubbed herself against me.
Fuck!
I reach inside my sweat pants and curl my fist around my cock, hot and hard in my hand. I imagine how it could have gone in that meadow, how it should damn well have gone. Her thighs falling open, me reaching beneath her skirt and slipping her panties down her legs. I imagine how wet she’d be, how she’d mewl and rub herself against my fingers. How I’d nip at her throat, how I’d tell her to hold still and let me thrust inside her. Barebacked, raw, feeling all of her.
I groan, sliding my hand up and down my cock. Imagining it. Imagining the way she’d moan and whimper, the way she’d beg for more, how she’d come squeezing around my cock.
Fuck!
I open my eyes and stare down into her face. Her eyes would be all drowsy with lust, her skin all flushed from her orgasm, her lips all swollen from my kisses.
I’d fuck her even harder.
