Page 59 of Fractured Fates

I grind my teeth together. “My understanding is that that isn’t how this works.”

“Your understanding is incorrect. You want me to give you a pass, you have to give me something in return.”

“What exactly do you want me to give you?” Maybe I’m reading this situation wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised. My social interactions have been few and far between. Perhaps I’m ill-practiced at reading signals. Maybe the creepy feeling in my stomach is not what I think it is. He’s probably just stoned.

But when the corner of his mouth lifts in a sly smile, I’m less convinced.

I scowl at him. “You’re sick.”

He chuckles, leaning over to the table by his bed and flicking ash from his joint into a tray. “Don’t worry little piggy, I’m not interested in anything like that from you. I mean look at you.” He chuckles. “There’s no meat to you.” He leans forward. “You need fattening up, little piggy, before anyone will sink their teeth into you.”

His words smart. Until I met the man in black, until I arrived at this school, I never had to consider my own attractiveness. I never gave it much thought. My face seemed fine enough and my body let me do all the things I needed it to do. What else did it matter?

Now it seems to matter. Where you sit in this school hierarchy is determined by how hot you are, how much money you have and your last name.

Well, at least my plainness means this creep won’t be expecting any … any whatever favors he was implying.

“Just give me a pass.”

“After you’ve done a few jobs here for me. Those girls messed this place up. You can empty the bins and change these sheets. I’m going for a shower.” He stubs his joint out in the tray and slides off the bed, padding across the room to a door on the far side. “When you’re done, I’ll sign your pass.”

I go to ask one of a million questions, but he’s already slammed the bathroom door in my face and a moment later I hear the water running.

Huffing, I glance around the room. There’s a large trunk tucked up against one wall and when I open it up I find clean sheets inside. I carry them over to the rumpled bed. It stinks of musk and masculine odors and there are several damp spots I don’t want to think too closely about. Irritated, I yank the sheets from the mattress, trying not to touch any of those spots, trying really hard not to imagine what caused them, thanking my stars Stone isn’t here to read my thoughts. I throw the dirty sheets onto the floor, then battle with the clean ones.

When I’m done, I hunt down the bins. They’re all empty apart from the one by the bed. As I bend down to pull out the trash bag, I get an unfortunate glimpse of what’s inside and I almost vomit. A used rubber accompanied by that masculine scent again.

Quickly, I tie up the bag and toss it onto the pile with the sheets. Tristan hasn’t returned yet, so despite the fact that I already hate the guy, I spend the next few minutes collecting up dirty glasses and straightening cushions.

He emerges from the bathroom just as I’ve exhausted all the jobs. A billow of steam follows him as he pads over to inspect the bed, his hair damp, and a white towel tied around his waist. He bends over to inspect my work and the muscles in his back ripple in a way that has me sucking in breath.

Unfortunately, I think he must hear, because he snaps his head around to smirk at me.

“Good job, pig girl. Perhaps I’ll get you to change my sheets every day.” I don’t answer, and he sits on the bed. The towel hangs low on his hips and two deep grooves cut from his hips down below the material. I drag my eyes away, my cheeks warm, as he opens the drawer in the bedside table, and pulls out a slip of paper.

It’s a blank form, but as he waves his hand over the paper, words appear along with a looped signature.

There goes any hope of faking a form next time.

He holds it out for me. “Here.”

I walk towards him, reaching out to take the piece of paper. He snatches my wrist and pulls me in close, so close I can smell the dark notes of whatever soap he used in the shower and see moisture sliding down his sculptured chest.

“What’s your phone number?”

“Why?” I ask, tugging on his grip.

“Because there are rules and expectations you need to follow in this house and I need to be able to get in contact with you.”

He stares into my eyes, his gaze flicking left and right, my cheeks so hot they’re blazing and my stomach fluttering.

I hiss the numbers at him, and he smiles with amusement at me, releasing my wrist. I grab the paper from his hand before he can taunt me with it any more.

“Enjoy your Saturday,” he says pleasantly.

As I pass through the door, I realize the bastard has filled the form out for Pig Girl.

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