His Broken Angel's Dying Secret
Chapter 8
The nurse's office smelled sharply of rubbing alcohol, a scent that made Claire's stomach churn violently.
She sat on the edge of the crinkly paper covering the examination bed.
The elderly school nurse approached her holding a blood pressure cuff and a small penlight.
Panic spiked in Claire's chest. If the nurse checked her vitals, she would instantly see the severe anemia and the irregular heartbeat caused by the chemo.
Claire abruptly slid off the bed and stood up.
"I'm fine," Claire said quickly, forcing a bright smile. "I just skipped breakfast. My blood sugar dropped."
Bishop was leaning against the doorframe. His arms were crossed over his chest. His dark eyes tracked her every movement.
He didn't believe a single word she was saying.
To prove her lie, Claire reached into her backpack. She pulled out a dense, chocolate protein bar.
She ripped the wrapper open and took a large bite.
The heavy, sweet taste hit her tongue. Her stomach immediately violently rejected it. She forced herself to chew and swallow, fighting the urge to gag.
The nurse sighed and handed her a small paper cup of water. "Eat a proper lunch, dear. You can go back to class."
Claire walked out into the empty hallway. Bishop pushed off the doorframe and followed her.
They walked in silence for a minute.
Suddenly, Bishop stopped. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an unopened carton of chocolate milk.
He shoved it hard against her chest.
"Drink it," Bishop ordered, his voice rough.
Claire looked at the milk, then up at his hard face. She took it without arguing.
By fourth period, the rain was pouring outside. Gym class was moved into the indoor basketball court.
Two classes were combined. The noise of squeaking sneakers and shouting boys was deafening.
Claire had a medical exemption on file. She sat alone on the bottom bleacher, reading a paperback novel.
Bishop hadn't changed into gym clothes either. He sat a few rows up and to her left, staring at his phone. But his body was angled toward her.
Out on the court, a group of football players were playing a rough half-court game.
Preston, a massive senior with a bad temper, missed a layup. The ball bounced out of bounds.
Preston cursed loudly. In a fit of rage, he kicked a heavy, stainless-steel water bottle sitting on the sideline.
The metal bottle launched into the air like a missile.
It flew straight toward the bleachers. Straight toward Claire's head.
Claire looked up from her book. The heavy metal object was flying at her face. Her brain froze. She couldn't move.
A blur of black leather lunged across her vision.
A large, calloused hand snatched the metal bottle out of the air.
The impact made a loud, hollow smack.
Bishop stood right beside her. His hand was gripping the bottle just two inches from Claire's nose.
The veins in his forearm bulged against his skin. His knuckles were bone-white.
The entire basketball court went dead silent.
Bishop slowly lowered his arm. He turned his head to look at Preston.
Bishop's eyes were completely black. He radiated a murderous, suffocating rage.
Preston swallowed hard, taking a step back. "My bad, Dalton. Foot slipped."
Bishop didn't say a word. He weighed the heavy metal bottle in his hand.
Then, he pulled his arm back and threw it.
The metal bottle smashed into the hardwood floor right between Preston's feet with a deafening crash. The heavy steel dented violently inward, buckling under the sheer force of the impact. Water exploded everywhere, soaking Preston's sneakers, and leaving a deep, white gouge scarred permanently into the polished wood.
Preston screamed and fell backward onto his ass.
Bishop walked slowly onto the court. He stood over Preston, looking down at him like he was an insect.
"If you ever throw something near her again," Bishop said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "I will cave your skull in."
The gym teacher ran over, blowing his whistle. "Dalton! Back off!"
Bishop let out a cold laugh. He turned his back on the teacher and walked straight to Claire.
He grabbed her backpack from the bench and slung it over his shoulder.
He looked down at her trembling hands. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second.
"Come on," Bishop said quietly. "We're leaving."
He walked out of the gym, and Claire followed him.
In the quiet hallway, Claire looked down at his hand gripping her bag. The back of his hand was already swelling, turning a dark, angry red from catching the heavy metal bottle.
"Your hand is hurt," Claire whispered.
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