Page 11 of Shattered Stars

“There’s a pretty bad bruise on your back. One I’m guessing the matron missed after the match.”

He strolls to a full-length mirror hanging on a wardrobe door on the far side of his room and peers over his shoulder. The tendons on his neck tighten and the muscles on his shoulder ripple. I bite my lip.

“Matron didn’t miss it,” he says. “It’s not from the match.”

I frown, remembering the last time Tristan Kennedy looked beat up.

He attempts to hook his arm over his shoulder and touch the bruise but he can’t reach it.

“Damn,” he says.

I hesitate, calculating my options. “If … if I heal it for you, will you give me the stupid permission slip?”

His eyes flick up to mine, all that electricity dancing in his pupils again. He licks his bottom lip.

“Do you actually know the spell, little piggie?”

I hold his gaze. “I saved my friend’s life a few days ago,” I whisper.

Interest sparks in his eyes.

“The Wence girl?”

I nod.

“What happened to her?”

I don’t know why I tell him, but I do. Something tells me if I’m honest with him, if I share my secrets, he’ll be more willing to give me what I want.

“We were attacked. By a group of soldiers.”

He frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense, little piggie. Are you making up stories?”

“It was back home. They were soldiers from the West.”

He frowns. “Soldiers from the West in our territory. It doesn’t make any sense. How would they get through our defenses?”

“Azlan says there’ve been several infiltrations.”

His eyes flicker across my face as he takes in this information.

“Your friend – she was injured?”

“Yes, when we tried to get away. I saved her.” A sense of pride blooms through my body and for once Tristan Kennedy doesn’t say something snarky in return. Instead he holds my gaze and nods.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Heal the bruise and I’ll give you the slip.” He stalks towards me grabbing my wrist again. “But I warn you, Piggie, tell anyone about this and I’ll make you regret it.”

I examine his face, filled with curiosity. Why would it matter? Where the hell did he get this bruise? Why hasn’t it been healed? And why is it some big secret?

“Turn around,” I tell him. He gives me a hard look, then does as I say.

I reach up to his shoulder, but I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach properly and balancing while weaving complicated magic is going to be too hard.

“I need you to sit.”

He drags the nearest chair towards him, the one with his prized jersey, and flops down. Firmly, I rest my hand on his shoulder, meaning to push him forward but as my palm connects with his flesh, electricity erupts in a hiss of sparks.

He leaps off his chair and I stare at him in disbelief.