Page 89 of Lesson Learned

There’s a small gasp and I glance over to see Paisley peeking through the gap in the door. “Don’t look,” I tell her, but for once she doesn’t obey. She’s so low down, she must be kneeling on the floor.

She’s in shock. I need to get this mess cleared up and get her to safety.

Sure. Just clean up a stabbing in the middle of a security-conscious boarding school.

Fuck.

I close my eyes, trying to think through the panic. The plan that immediately comes to mind involves calling in a new favour, before I’ve even got out from under the old one.

My only option might be to call on Patrick and Creighton for help.

Double fuck.

“Paisley, sweetheart. Could you move back and close the door? You won’t want to see this.”

When she answers, her voice is tiny, defeated. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

Her blank eyes stare at James, then move to me, no comprehension showing. “Should I call an ambulance?” She frowns at me, eyes flickering between me and the blood until she looks like she’s having an optical seizure. “My phone battery died.”

“That’s okay. I’ll arrange everything but you just need to close the door. I don’t want you seeing anything more than you have already.”

At first, she doesn’t respond. I can’t stand to force her and I’m moving, ready to block her view with my body, when she gives a gasp, then complies, sliding the door all the way across, the shadow through the gap underneath showing me she’s stepped farther inside.

“Bitch.”

My eyes jolt down to James. He stares at me, eyes filled with hatred before they slip closed.

“Hey,” I say, slapping him lightly on the cheek to regain his attention. “What happened?”

He takes three goes to say, “Bitch stabbed me.”

The blade in his back made that obvious. That he’s conscious and can remember makes him dangerous. The paralysis is handy but might also be temporary.

I sit back on my heels, staring at the wound. A flick knife. He probably brought it with him.

“Need a doctor,” James mutters before letting out a long groan that blows ripples on the pool of blood. His voice is weak but growing stronger. Soon he’ll be able to call for help.

I put one hand on his shoulder, the other grasping the handle and tugging. There’s a noise like chewing on gristle, then it slips free. I roll the boy onto his back, staring at his face, weighing options. Another stab wound is on the right side of his chest, still pumping out blood.

“You hurt my girl.”

His eyes flicker at that. A frown line appears on his forehead. A response not to the words as much as to my tone.

The dawning realisation that my arrival didn’t mean help. Not for him.

“Get away from me.” The strain in his face tells me how hard he’s trying to move, to protect himself. I don’t have to lay a finger on him, he’s stuck in position.

I search within myself but don’t find any trace of pity.

He’s no victim. Just a perpetrator who found the tables turned on him with one stroke of bad luck. My breath catches as I imagine walking in and finding Paisley incapacitated instead, finding my precious girl in a spreading pool of her own blood.

“She liked it,” he snarls, a large bubble of spit popping against his lips, traces of blood staining his teeth pink. “You weren’t enough for her.”

The words dig into the part of me still grieving my marriage. It sparks an echo of Saski’s voice as she hurled invective after invective; using her words to cut me to shreds, to eviscerate me.

But I no longer believe them any more than I believe the hate-riddled monster on the floor.

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