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.

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.