Page 35 of Ruined Wolfsbane

Classes tomorrow afternoon are canceled for a faculty meeting. Come to my office at 1:30. Otherwise, I’ll have to talk to the dean.

- Malachi

Anger bubbles in my stomach at his threat. Malachi going to the dean is basically signing my death warrant. Patrick has made it very clear that if anyone finds out what he does, he’ll kill me to save his own ass. Logically, I know Malachi has no idea what he’s threatening. I’m still pissed he’s putting me in this position.

Since I can barely walk, I wasn’t planning on going to class tomorrow. With Malachi’s threat hanging over my head, I not only have to go to my class tomorrow, I also have to meet with Malachi and hope I can hide my pain well enough he doesn’t notice.

I’m so fucked.

Also, would it kill Malachi not to boss me around for a single day?

Apparently.

With furious jabs of my thumbs, I send an email agreeing to meet him tomorrow. When I finish, I toss my phone aside and haul my aching body out of bed. I’m going to need a massive dinner to have any hope of making it to school tomorrow. After eating every cold cut in the house, I collapse back into bed. I’m drained just from getting food, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow.

Making sure to set my alarm for the morning, I let sleep pull me under.

CHAPTER 16

BRIAR

Three in the morning is way too early to be awake. I know the trek to school is going to take longer than usual, so I’m out of bed at this ungodly hour.

Reaching into the shower, I crank it to as hot as it can go. I’m in the mood for a scalding shower because it’s going to hurt either way. No point in suffering through a cold shower. Before I get in, I wrap my stitched wound in plastic wrap to keep it from getting wet. Pretty sure getting water in an open cut is a no-no.

Stepping under the showerhead, I hiss as the spray pelts my body. The water feels like hundreds of tiny daggers digging into every bruise I have. As I adjust to the almost burning spray, I lean my forehead against the cool white tile and let a tear slip free. Only one, though. I’m not sure I have the strength to put myself back together again if I completely fall apart.

I keep thinking my tears would have dried up by now. They’re still here, threatening to undo me completely. Jesus. I need to get a grip before I end up a blubbering mess on my shower floor.

Gritting my teeth, I power through my shower. Lifting my hands above my head to shampoo my scalp is a special kind of agony with broken ribs.

Once I’m sure I’ve rinsed the blood and sweat off me, I get out. I have to lean against the shower door, feeling lightheaded from the exertion. Today’s going to be a long day if a simple shower is this challenging.

When the dizziness passes, I dry off and squeeze out as much water from my hair as I can. There’s no way I can braid my hair today or even do basic styling. I guess I’m going to rock the drowned rat look today.

Just what I wanted.

Huffing at my inane thoughts, I rush through my morning routine. I try to minimize the time I spend in front of the mirror. My one glance at my reflection shows my split lip and black eye are healed. Unfortunately, my torso can’t say the same.

Shuffling to my room, I snag a couple nonstick gauze pads and medical tape. The first time I had to stitch myself up, I covered the wound with regular gauze. When I changed the bloody gauze, I had to remove multiple layers of skin to unstick it. That’s one experience I have no desire to repeat. I always use the nonstick stuff now.

I quickly tape two pads on top of the three-inch gash in my side. With the gauze, I won’t bleed through my uniform if I bust my stitches. I throw the whole box of gauze in my satchel. With my luck, I’ll need all of it to make it through the day.

As I dress, I’m thankful for the longer skirts Malachi ordered. Combined with my knee-high socks, my skirt completely covers the black and purple bruising on my thighs and my swollen knees.

I pack my satchel and make a quick lunch before limping out the door.

By the time I make it to school, I’m covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The normally two-hour walk takes me nearly four hours in my battered state. I’m also pretty sure I tore a stitch on the way here.

“That twat waffle, douche canoe, shit taco, absolute asswipe!” I curse under my breath, calling Malachi every name I can come up with. It’s his fault I’m a sweaty, bloody mess right now. If it weren’t for him threatening to report me to the dean, I’d be at home, resting. Not walking six miles at a snail’s pace.

I make a beeline for the Wyldhart Hall’s first floor girl’s bathroom. Once in the stall, I lift my shirt to look at my makeshift bandage. Sure enough, the two gauze pads are soaked through with crimson liquid. None leaked through onto my under tank, luckily.

I carefully remove the tape and gauze. The stitches in the middle of the wound are broken, frayed edges standing in a salute. Shit. I don’t have a needle or thread with me. Packing the wound with gauze will have to do until I can get back home. Doubling up on nonstick pads, I quickly tape the bandage on. With only a few minutes left to get to class, I hustle as fast as my aching body will allow me.

Class and the hours following pass in a blur. Before I know it, I’m at Malachi’s office five minutes before 1:30. Hearing voices, I knock on the door.

“Come in,” Malachi’s gravelly voice calls.

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