Page 14 of Isabela

I didn’t mean to say that part. Fuck.

“Don’t hold back now,” Isabela scoffs as she walks into the elevator as the door opens. Scowling at her, I follow her into the small space. While I didn’t mean to be this abrasive, at least she’s speaking to me.

“Thanks for your permission,” I say brightly. If she wants the unhinged asshole, she’s got him.

Isabela rolls her eyes, making me smile. Yeah, I’m going to enjoy finding out exactly what’s going on with her right the fuck now.

Unfortunately, she won’t because I don’t fuck my students. However, maybe we can both find a way to come to an appropriate solution that ends with her agreeing to enter the Eagna Society.

I can only hope, because failure isn’t an option.

Chapter Four

ISABELA

Dr. Murphy has a predatory glint in his eyes, which makes me feel very uneasy. Shifting carefully as I drop my crossed arms, I raise my brow as his gaze moves to read my sweater.

“Really?” he barks out a laugh, as if surprising himself. This man is going to give me whiplash.

In the last few minutes he’s been sympathetic, looked like he wanted to eat me alive, and now he’s amused.

“What?” I ask, glancing down at myself. Only now am I reminded of the cheeky phrasing of my sweater. “It’s new. I figured it would be warm.”

I almost said “it would help me hide,” but that’s not something I want to confess to him. Being around him is dangerous, because I really don’t feel well.

I haven’t been to the doctor, because I have everything at the apartment I need, since I don’t have health insurance. I even finally picked up arnica cream, and the bruising is starting to fade enough that my makeup covers more of it.

Unfortunately, I need to be a little farther along in my healing process before I can pretend to the world this beating never happened. My body is definitely reminding me, though. Fuck.

“Are you a masochist?” Dr. Murphy asks conversationally as the elevator arrives at the third floor. I’m dizzy as I process his question.

“What?” I ask. My voice isn’t as hoarse anymore, but it does crack from the stress of this conversation. “No, of course not.”

“You don’t take pain medication after a supposed car accident, you don’t wear enough clothing when it’s cold… I feel as if you may be. Feel free to look up the definition for a photo of yourself,” he says smugly, strolling out of the elevator. “Coming?”

God, he’s such an asshole.

“Yeah,” I mutter, trailing behind him as we walk to his office. There are people chatting in the hallway, and I tug the hood over my head, allowing the shadows to hide me. I’m tired of the stares, and am thankful my other teachers didn’t have a problem with emailing me any notes I’ll need.

One professor attempted to give me shit, so I took a photo of my face and emailed him back asking if that was enough proof. Dr. Borgs sounded appropriately shocked, but emailed me his PowerPoint presentations for the next few classes.

I’m hopeful the arnica cream will help. I just need to be able to stay conscious through this meeting, because while I felt really good this morning, I’m afraid my body can only do short bursts of energy before I’m fully recovered.

“Please sit before you fall down, Miss Cohen,” Dr. Murphy grunts as he closes the door behind me.

“Can we keep the door open please?” I ask, remaining standing as I stare at the door. My heartbeat is starting to pound as I remember the last time I was in a closed room.

Fuck. I do not need to panic right now.

“Don't be silly… Isabela?” Dr. Murphy gets in my face, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’re serious right now?”

“Yes,” I whisper. My breaths are coming faster, and there’s this whooshing sound roaring in my ears. Is this what PTSD is like?

“Why do you say that?” Dr. Murphy asks, moving quickly to open the door wide. It feels as if a bubble pops the moment he does, and I gasp in a full breath. It pulls at my ribs, but that’s okay.

I’m not going to embarrass myself today. Maybe. Wait… what did he ask?

“What?” I ask dumbly.

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