Chapter 9
The cold water from the bathroom sink did nothing to wash away the dark circles under Claire's eyes.
She patted her face dry with a paper towel.
The heavy bathroom door swung open. Verity Shaw, the head cheerleader, walked in with two of her friends.
Verity crossed her arms. She looked Claire up and down with a sneer of pure disgust.
"Listen to me, new girl," Verity said, stepping close enough that Claire could smell her heavy vanilla perfume. "Don't think Bishop actually cares about you. He's just using you to piss off the teachers."
Claire leaned against the sink. Her stomach gave a painful throb. She didn't have the energy for high school drama.
"Bishop is a psycho," Verity hissed, leaning closer. "Everyone who gets close to him gets hurt. If you're smart, you'll stay away from him."
Claire looked at Verity's perfectly manicured nails.
"If you're so worried about him," Claire said calmly, "you should go warn him. Not me."
Claire grabbed her bag, pushed past Verity, and walked out of the bathroom.
After school, the library was mostly empty.
Claire walked down the narrow aisle of the history section. She needed a book for her essay.
She spotted it on the top shelf. She stood on her tiptoes and reached up, her fingers barely brushing the spine.
A long, muscular arm reached over her head and pulled the book down effortlessly.
Claire spun around.
She crashed right into Bishop's solid chest.
He looked down at her. He smelled like rain and mint.
He handed her the book. His jaw was tight. "Did Verity say something to you in the bathroom today?"
Claire took the book and shook her head. "No. Just girl talk."
Bishop let out a harsh breath. He took a step forward, backing Claire up against the metal bookshelf.
He placed one hand on the shelf beside her head, trapping her.
"I don't like liars, Claire," Bishop said, his voice low and dangerous.
Claire panicked. She took a quick step backward to escape his intense, suffocating gaze, but there was nowhere to go.
Bishop reached out instinctively, his large hand wrapping firmly around her left forearm to stop her from retreating any further.
"Ah!" Claire gasped, her muscles tensing violently under his grip.
Startled by her sudden cry of pain, Bishop flinched, his fingers accidentally dragging against the thick knit fabric. The forceful, uncoordinated movement yanked the oversized sleeve of her sweater all the way up to her elbow.
Bishop froze.
His eyes locked onto the inside of her forearm.
The skin was covered in massive, horrific purple and black bruises. They were dark, ugly, and clearly not from a simple fall.
Bishop stopped breathing.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His fingers wrapped around her arm, his grip trembling with a sudden, explosive rage.
"What the hell is this?" Bishop demanded, his voice cracking. "This isn't from falling in the dirt. Who did this to you?"
Claire's heart stopped. He was going to figure it out. He was going to know she was dying.
She yanked her arm, but he held on tight. Tears of pure panic filled her eyes.
"I did it!" Claire shouted, her voice echoing in the quiet aisle. "I did it to myself!"
Bishop froze. The rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by utter shock. "What?"
Claire looked down at the floor. She forced the tears to fall.
"I have severe anxiety," Claire lied, her voice shaking as she desperately constructed a believable half-truth. "My parents demand perfect grades. When the pressure gets too much... I press things into my arm. Like the hard metal edge of a ruler or the back of a pen. I press them into my skin as hard as I can until I can't feel the panic anymore. It distracts me."
She looked up at him, letting a bitter, broken smile cross her lips. "Do you think I'm a freak now?"
Bishop stared at her.
The physical pain in his chest was so sharp he could barely breathe.
He looked at the horrific bruises on her fragile skin. He thought about the immense, crushing pressure she must be under to hurt herself like this.
The cold, violent shell he wore every day completely shattered.
He slowly loosened his grip on her wrist.
He didn't let go. Instead, his large, rough thumb gently, almost reverently, brushed against the edge of the dark purple skin.
He touched her like she was made of the thinnest glass.
"Don't," Bishop whispered. His voice was thick with a raw, agonizing ache. "Please. Stop hurting yourself."
He couldn't look at her anymore. It hurt too much.
He dropped her hand, turned around, and walked quickly out of the library.
Claire slid down the metal bookshelf until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
She cried because she was dying, and she cried because she had just used his beautiful, broken heart to hide her secret.
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