Page 121 of Fractured Fates

“What do you mean?”

“She’s in Venus, man. I know you look into every student who joins your house.”

“Her files are empty.”

“Empty?” I say skeptically, wondering why the hell he’d be keeping things from me.

He shakes his head. “The crap that’s in there is all the stuff we already know.”

“And that didn’t arouse your interest?” I know my best friend. I know that it would.

“I asked someone who works for my father to look into her.” I nod, it’s nothing short of what I’d expect him to do.

“And?”

Tristan stops on the path outside the apartment block which houses our rooms. He rests his hand on the door knob. “Jack shit.”

“This man, is he any–”

“Good? One of the best in the business.”

“I don’t understand it.” I rub at my belly.

“You want me to have a go at it?” he asks, with a smile teasing his lips. He fucking loves that he’s just that bit, that stupid smidgen of a bit, better than me.

“No point.”

“It could fester.”

I swear under my breath. “Fine.”

“Let’s go up to my room.”

There are about a dozen notes pinned to his door, most of them in handwriting I recognize. The same notes get pinned to my door daily, invitations to join girls in their room.

He ignores them all, unlocking his door with a wave of his hand and stepping inside.

A low lamp flicks on and I gaze around the room. It’s rare he lets anyone up here, even me, and the place always fascinates me.

It’s not like any other room on campus. No posters pinned to the room, no trophies resting on the shelves, not even any books scattered across the desk. It’s empty. Bare. Like he doesn’t want this room to reveal anything about him.

“Take your shirt off and lie on the bed,” he tells me, walking to a floor lamp, switching it on and dragging it over to shine down at me.

The circle of light illuminates my skin, making the bruise all the darker. Like a fucking black hole right in the center of my gut.

He leans in closer, his blonde hair flopping over his face, and examines the bruise.

“Can you just get on with it?” I say, I’ve never enjoyed being the patient. Other people’s hands on my skin irritates the hell out of me. It has the monster inside me itching to break free, to shed this weak pathetic form and adorn something harder, stronger, more magnificent.

Even when I’m with a girl, I won’t let her touch me. They can keep their hands firmly to themselves.

I bristle now, the monster inside stirring, my eyes locked on Tristan’s hand. He’d better not touch me.

I growl and his eyes move lazily up to meet mine.

“It doesn’t look like a bruise to me,” he says.

“No, I know that asshole. It’s scarlet magic, we know that.”