Page 65 of Kingmakers, Year Three

“You’re going to have quite a few bruises,” Sasha says. “And I’ll probably have to stitch this.” She nods toward the cut on Cat’s forehead.

“That’s fine,” Cat sighs. “I had a couple of those last year.”

I bite back the urge to demand why she needed stitches last year, and who fucking caused it.

“Are you really alright?” I ask her, trying not to let her hear how anxious I am inside.

“Yes,” she says, a little color coming back into her cheeks. “Just sore.”

“I’ll give you something for that,” Sasha says. “Then the stitches won’t hurt, either.”

She fills a syringe with clear fluid and inserts the needle into the crook of Cat’s arm. She pushes down the plunger, and almost immediately Cat lets out a long sigh.

“Ohhhh that’s really good . . .”

Sasha chuckles. “That’s Professor Lyon’s own blend. We have to keep it under lock and key, or all the teachers would be knocking on my door.”

The doctor begins to organize the instruments needed for the stitches.

Cat rolls her head to the side to look at me, her eyes large and liquid, the pupils dilated.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not that injured. You’ll still get your month’s worth.”

“I don’t care about that!” I retort angrily.

Then I see Cat’s teasing smile.

I hadn’t realized that she could be funny. There’s a lot about Cat I still have to learn.

“Dean . . .” she says softly.

My heart hits against my ribs, not yet calmed from the mad race over here.

“Yes?” I reply.

“Did you catch me?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But I did dig you out.”

“Maybe next time . . . try to catch me,” Cat says.

I know she’s joking, but I feel an uneasy guilt that makes my laugh sound strange.

“Next time give me a little warning,” I say.

“You’re so fast . . .” Cat whispers, her voice drifting across the space between us.

“Not that fast,” I say.

“You could catch me . . .” Cat says, her eyes half closed.

I know she’s high as balls on whatever Professor Lyons cooked up, but her confidence in me fills me with warmth all the same.

Her hand is no longer cold and limp inside of mine. Instead, she intertwines our fingers.

Sasha brings over her tray of sterilized instruments.

“You want to stay for this, too?” she says.

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