Page 66 of Fractured Fates

I huff out a breath through my teeth, then stroll over to the tower of manure. Might as well get started.

An hour later, I’ve shifted several pounds of manure but I’ve hardly made a dent in the tower and I realize I’ll be working well into the night at this rate.

The sun’s risen higher in the sky and the shadows have retreated. I’m sweating and parched and my head hurts even more than it did when I woke up.

I lean on the handle of my pitch fork and swipe my arm over my brow, then peer at the professor. He’s immersed in his newspaper, and I don’t think he’s realized I’ve halted until he shouts:

“Not time for a break yet, Blackwaters.” I jump about a foot off the ground and the pitchfork clatters to the ground. “Careful with school equipment.”

I send him another disgusting image.

“You want me to make that shit pile higher, Blackwaters?”

“I’m dying of thirst over here. I need something to drink.”

He looks up from his paper and examines me. Maybe he realizes I’m close to fainting on him, because he rolls his eyes.

“Go get some water from the Venus common room. I’m giving you two minutes. If you’re not back–”

“The Venus common room? Can’t I–”

“You’re wasting time.”

I scowl at him and sprint off in the direction of the common room. As I arrive at the door, I can hear the murmuring of voices within.

No, scrap that, whoever is inside certainly isn’t doing any talking.

I decide that actually I’d rather die of thirst than walk in onthatlooking and smelling like I do right now.

But my feet don’t seem to be in agreement with my mind and that strange sensation in my belly keeps me grounded right where I am. Right where I am and listening to the high-pitched moans of some girl, the squeak of mattress springs, the thud of a headboard and deep male grunts.

I may have been a recluse all my life but I know what that means. I don’t want to stand here and listen but I can’t seem to move, my stomach a strange concoction of nausea and fluttering. I remember the last time I was here, Tristan in that towel, his toned body glistening with water, his golden hair damp from the shower, his eyes intense.

I remember the power that seemed to radiate from his body, a body and power he’s now using to …

The room hangs heavy with that masculine scent and a lighter one that turns my stomach.

My eyes adjust slowly to the dim light and I can make out the outlines of two bodies: one laid out on the bed, a woman, the other stood by the end of it, a man. Legs are wrapped around his waist, his hands tight on her thighs. The bodies crash together in a rhythm that seems to match the beat of my heart and the body on the bed writhes in pleasure. Both seem oblivious to my presence, lost in each other.

Their panted breaths become more frantic, the girl cries out, the bed bangs against the wall with more force.

I want to leave. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see this. But my feet won’t move. My body won’t obey and to my shame my blood seems to heat.

Then there’s a loud grunt. Someone swears.

Tristan, definitely Tristan.

I need to leave. Now.

But I’m too late. His head turns. His cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, his eyes fierce. He peers over his shoulder. At me. Right at me.

“Pig girl,” he growls, and finally my body responds. I sprint out of the common room as quickly as my legs will carry me.

Stone’s waiting for me on his feet.

“That was longer than two minutes.”

“I bumped into a couple of assholes,” I mutter, keeping all those revolting images hovering in my mind so the professor won’t see what I just have.