The shift had been barely perceptible. If he hadn’t been so close to me, pressing against me, breathing on me, I might not have been sure I’d seen it. But I had. The beast was real. And I’d met it.
It was a monster, and it had to be stopped.
If it was killed, I could have Tristen . . . the real Tristen. We could kiss again without being afraid.
Looking back, I think that’s why I waited so long before begging him to stop drinking. It was selfish, really, what I did.
I wanted Tristen so badly that I would risk even Tristen to have him.
Selfish, selfish, selfish Jill.
I was so caught up in the hope that Tristen would somehow be cured that at first I didn’t even realize we’d never talked about dosage. It wasn’t until he’d drunk almost half the contents of the flask—drinking so quickly that some liquid spilled over the lip of the vessel, and over Tristen’s lips, and poured down his throat, too—only then, when he doubled over clutching his stomach, did I realize that Tristen wasn’t trying to cure himself. He was killing himself right before my eyes . . . and I’d let him do it.
“No, Tristen!” I finally screamed, running to him.
But I was too late.
Chapter 45
Jill
“TRISTEN, NO!” I wailed, kneeling next to him, clutching his shuddering shoulder. “You drank too much!” I shook him. “What was it? What was in it?”
Tristen didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t answer. He writhed on the hard linoleum floor, arms wrapped around his stomach, groaning and sort of growling like he really struggled not only with the pain but with the monster, too.
“What was it, Tristen?” I begged, shaking him more gently. “Please. Tell me. We could try to neutralize it!”
Tristen only curled more tightly against himself, breathing hard and raggedly, and I jumped up, tearing through the notes, the packets and vials of chemicals—And then I saw it.
A small half-empty bottle of strychnine.
“No!” I cried, snatching up the vial. It was poison. His muscles would be seizing painfully, and soon his breathing would stop . . .
Tossing aside the bottle, I dropped next to him again, only to see that he’d gotten quiet. A stillness that was worse than his writhing agony. Was he past pain? Past help? “I’ll get an ambulance,” I promised, choking back tears, feeling for the faint pulse that beat in his wrist. He was dying . . . dying right before my eyes.
I started to crawl away, scrambling for my backpack, where I kept my cell phone—only to be stopped by a firm hand snapping around my ankle with the force of a bear trap.
“Tristen, let go!” I begged, spinning back and tearing at his fingers. He was still curled in a ball, but his grip was remarkably strong, like he’d drawn power from the pain itself. “I have to get help!”
“No,” he ordered, sucking ragged breaths. His grasp was strong, but his voice was weak, almost inaudible. “I don’t want that . . . and I don’t want you . . . involved—”
“But you’re . . . you’re . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say “dying.”
“I know,” he said, fingers clutching even more tightly around my ankle as a wave of pain washed over him, causing him to grimace and shudder again more forcefully. “It’s what . . . I want, Jill.”
“Tristen.” I was sobbing by then. “Please . . .”
“Just . . . stay with me. Stay until . . . Then leave me here . . .”
I hesitated, wanting to save him, longing to help him. He was getting weaker, fainter, falling away from me, and I probably could have unwrapped his fingers from around my leg. But Tristen didn’t want to be saved. Probably couldn’t be saved.
And in the end, whether it was right or wrong, I chose to honor his request. Because I loved him, I would let him die on his own terms.
He was still, so still, by the time I made my decision that I twisted easily out of his grasp, crawled back to his side, and cradled his head, trying to give him some small comfort. Not that he probably noticed. I thought Tristen was definitely past pain at that point. Maybe past life—he was so motionless and pale.
I couldn’t bring myself to check. I was too scared to take his pulse and confirm the inevitable. Because the moment I did . . . if his heart really didn’t beat . . . Tristen Hyde would really be gone.
Forever.
The sobs I’d almost controlled started again, and I sat on the floor, holding his head and weeping over him. Selfishly crying for myself, too.
Selfish, selfish me.
“I’m so sorry, Tristen,” I whispered, stroking his hair. “So, so sorry.”
Sorry for the awful fate that had been handed to him. Sorry for the terrible end he’d chosen.
Sorry that I felt worse at that moment than I did even at my father’s death.
Sorry . . . I was sorry for everything . . . Sorry that we’d kissed only once and even that had been destroyed, stolen from us. From me.
I stroked Tristen’s cheek, felt the rough stubble, the sweat that was growing cold, and in a perverse reversal of Snow White, a grotesque twist on all the Disney princess movies I’d daydreamed over as a little girl, I bent to kiss Tristen: part prince, part beast, with no hope of a happy ending.
His skin was stone cold against my lips.
Tristen . . . Tristen was gone . . .
I would bury him just like I’d buried my father. The only two men I’d really loved, in the span of a year.
Grief crashed over me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, but the hot tears wouldn’t stop, and they spilled down my face like a river as I sat alone on the floor. Just moments ago I’d been part of a pair. Now I was alone again. Not just alone but broken.
Who would hold me at Tristen’s funeral? No one . . . No one . . .
Suddenly I couldn’t bear to cradle his head any longer, couldn’t look at his face so empty and frozen, and I gently rested his head on the floor, certain that he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. Then, like a wounded animal, I crawled to his side and collapsed on him, giving in to my own agony, which felt like poison, too, burning inside of me. I clutched at his shirt, burying my face against his chest, wailing.
Dead . . . He was dead . . .
That was when I felt a hand begin to stroke my back, comforting me.
It didn’t sink in at first. Someone was comforting me.
But slowly I realized what was happening, and I raised my face from Tristen’s chest, not understanding.
I was alone—except for Tristen’s body.
Except for Tristen.
Not daring to believe, I swiped one arm across my eyes and slowly turned my face to his, sucking in my breath at the sight of his open eyes. Astonished not just by the fact that Tristen was alive but by the expression on his face.
I heard the wonder, the confusion, in my voice as I dared to say his name.
“Tristen?”
Chapter 46
Jill
TRISTEN SAT UP SLOWLY, still holding his stomach, his face still pale and his breathing still shallow. There was something different about him, too, aside from looking like he’d been to hell and back, as maybe he just had. Something had changed in his eyes. Something was missing, it seemed. The haunted, hunted look that had always been there, even when he laughed.
“Tristen?” I took his arm, helping him slide up straighter so he could rest his back against a lab table. “Are you okay?”
He couldn’t be okay. Could he?
He leaned his head back against the table and closed his eyes, obviously exhausted and still hurting. But as I watched his face, wondering if maybe now we should get to a hospital, he smiled. “I’m fine, Jill,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”
At first I thought he was still incoherent. Or that maybe this was some calm before a new storm and he might double over again. The suffering he’d just endured . . . He couldn’t be “fine.”
“Tristen, let’s get help now,” I urged, gripping his hand.
“No.” He shook his head,
still beaming that strange, blissful smile. “No, Jill. I just want to rest for a minute.”
“What’s happening?” I asked, wishing he’d open his eyes again. What was that look I’d seen there? “What . . . what are you feeling? Are you in pain?” Was I about lose him again? Because I didn’t think I could bear it.
“What I feel, Jill, is peace,” Tristen said. “The first peace I’ve felt in years.”
My own eyes widened in disbelief. Although I’d seen the change in his expression, I couldn’t quite grasp what he seemed to be implying. “You’re not trying to say that the formula worked. . . ?”
He squeezed my fingers, smiling more broadly. Some of the color had returned to his face, and he looked almost rested. “Let’s not question it right now, Jill. Let me just be at peace for a moment. Okay?”
Tristen tugged my hand, drawing me closer, and I shifted to sit beside him. He let go of my hand and slipped his arm around me, pulling me close in that protective embrace I’d thought I’d never feel again. He opened his eyes then, meeting mine, willing me to look closely at him. It was almost like he knew that he must look different and was showing me, trying to prove to me that he had changed.
Trust me, his eyes said.
As I stared deep into his familiar, yet different, brown eyes, I knew with certainty that whatever had happened to Tristen on the floor of that classroom, whether it had been the formula he’d drunk or by sheer force of will, he had beaten the monster that had tormented him. The dark shadow that had always seemed to lurk inside his eyes was gone. The Tristen who held my gaze was still the boy I loved: confident, smart, and commanding. But he wasn’t scary anymore.
He closed his eyes again, leaning his head back, and I rested my head against his chest, feeling his heart beat. Feeling completely happy for the first time I could remember since maybe elementary school—when I’d moved beyond the circumscribed happy sphere of my parents’ acceptance of me for who I was. Since before I’d come to realize that being shy and plain were bad qualities in most people’s eyes. Tristen’s arms recreated, in a very tangible way, that circle of approval I’d known in childhood.
Gradually his heart started to beat even more strongly. He rested his cheek against the top of my head then turned his face to kiss my hair, whispering, “Thank you, Jill.” He squeezed me more tightly. “Thank you for coming for me and for staying with me.”
“I couldn’t leave you,” I said. “You drank too much—” I wanted to scold him for being too reckless, but my voice suddenly threatened to break at the memory of him writhing on the floor, growing cold.
“I had to destroy it,” Tristen said, alluding, for the first time since waking, to the defeated beast. “It wanted you too badly.”
Tristen wanted me, too. I knew that as he again brushed his lips against my hair.
I forced away the image of Tristen shoving me against the desk. That was over now. I was safe. I was wanted. For the first time in my life a boy—one that I was crazy about—actually wanted Jill Jekel.
I turned to see his face, our eyes met again, and I saw then that the new warmth there was burning a little more intensely.
“I want to kiss you, Jill,” he said softly. “Just me.” He paused, watching my face, maybe seeing my uncertainty, because he added, “Do you still want me? Or has what happened . . . what nearly happened . . . Are you sickened by me? Frightened of me?” A shadow crossed his face, dimming his happiness. “Because I am sickened by me. By what could have happened here if I hadn’t heard your voice—”
“Nothing happened,” I reassured him, even though I flinched again, too. Images of Tristen’s eyes turning that scary shade of steel, the rasp of his rough skin against mine, the pressure of his body bending me back over the desk . . . I forced them all out of my mind. “Nothing happened,” I repeated, wanting to erase recent history for both our sakes. “And I’m not frightened now,” I added truthfully. Because I wasn’t afraid of Tristen anymore. The beast was gone.
But . . . I was lying, too. Because I was a little scared. Not of monsters but of the very things I’d wanted for so long: a boyfriend, a love life . . . sex? I needed some kind of instruction or rules. Instruction on what to do and rules about how far we should go. Tristen was obviously experienced. It showed in the way he bent his head to meet my lips again, gently but with confidence. Confidence that I lacked.
Were we boyfriend and girlfriend now?
I loved Tristen, and he’d nearly died for me. What did I owe him, in life? What did I want to give him? I didn’t know.
I wanted him, badly. But I wanted time, too. Even though my stomach tickled with attraction when his fingers stroked my throat, I couldn’t help tensing and putting one hand on his shoulder, in case I’d have to stop him again—not because he was a beast, but because he was a man.
But suddenly, when Tristen once again somehow opened my tight, nervous lips, as surely and effortlessly as he picked every other lock that blocked his path, and our tongues touched for the second time that night, twining around each other, drinking each other in . . . suddenly a shudder rippled through my entire body.
I didn’t shake with fear or cold or tremble with lust or longing or love, even. No, what I felt was all that and more, including a violent stab of pain that was so pure it could only be described as pleasure.
What I experienced was me . . . transforming.
And, oh, did it feel wickedly good.
Chapter 47
Jill
“TRISTEN,” I MOANED—pleaded—slipping my hand from his shoulder and wrapping my arm around his neck, pressing our chests together, rubbing against him. “Come on, Tristen, please.”
Suddenly I was impatient with him and for him. My side ached, and I held it with my other hand, wanting even more pain, more action.
Too much tenderness . . . not enough friction . . . What is he waiting for?
“Jill,” Tristen muttered against my roving mouth, my searching lips. “Jill!”
Too much talking . . . not enough touching . . .
I slipped around to climb aboard his lap. Let’s see what you’ve got there . . .
But he caught my hips and stopped me, pushing back. “Easy, Jill,” he said, half laughing but sounding confused, too. “It’s not a race. Or a rodeo!”
Oh, but it is a race . . . a race to the finish . . .
I pried at Tristen’s fingers, wanting our hips to get better acquainted.
In response, he clutched me more firmly, actually lifted me off his lap and set me back on the floor while I struggled to keep our tongues engaged, which only caused us both to sprawl sideways in a tangled, messy heap, and suddenly we weren’t kissing anymore; we were wrestling. And not in the way I wanted to wrestle.
“Jill,” he said firmly, no longer amused but sounding doubly baffled. He held me at bay with one hand on my shoulder. “Slow down—or at least let me lead a bit, too.”
I sat up, staring at him in disbelief. Is that was this is about? Male pride? “Fine,” I agreed, shrugging. “Go ahead. Lead.” As long as we get the deed done, what do I care?
But apparently Tristen had changed his mind entirely. He sat on the floor looking at me with concern, not desire, in his eyes. “Jill,” he said, studying my face and massaging my shoulder. “Let’s just stop for a moment, eh? This doesn’t feel right to me.” He shook his head, clearly puzzled. “Something isn’t right.”
He’s joking, right? Boy. Girl. Dark room. Nothing wrong with that scenario—except that we have our clothes on.
“Come on, Tristen,” I begged, reaching out for him. “Let’s keep going!”
He caught my wrist with his free hand. “No. Not right now, Jill. I think this whole night has been overwhelming for both of us. You seem a bit . . . frantic.”
Yes, frantic. And hot and bothered, for him. What is wrong with that?
“It’s getting late,” Tristen added, rising. He held out his hand, pulling me up, too. “I need to make some more formula then get you home.”<
br />
Ahh, the formula. I licked my lips again, distracted from sex. “You do?”
“Yes,” Tristen said, moving behind the lab table. He seemed to get edgy. Almost cagey, not meeting my eyes. “I want to mix up more—in case I need it.”
“I’ll help,” I volunteered. Help and learn.
“No,” Tristen replied too quickly. “I’ll do it.”
Is he hiding something from me? I watched suspiciously as he arranged the beakers and vials, working fast. “But I could help you,” I offered again.
The pain in my side was subsiding, becoming a dull ache, and my head was starting to clear. I felt weird, like the hormones that had just caused me to act so boldly, so embarrassingly forward, were filtering out of my brain.
“You could start to clean up, I suppose,” Tristen suggested. “If you don’t mind? We could get out of here sooner.”
I didn’t want to be his janitor, but I was really starting to feel sheepish about how I’d just attacked him, so I agreed. “Sure.”
“Could you repack my bag?” Tristen requested, nodding toward a pile of papers and books as he poured something that I couldn’t identify into a new flask. The mixture bubbled.
Delicious. I shook my head, not sure why such a weird word had popped into my head, and joined Tristen at the lab desk, stacking papers that were scattered across the surface, like in his hurry to mix the formula, he’d dumped his whole bag onto the table. And when I lifted his bent, crumpled lab manual, I saw the novel, which Tristen hadn’t allowed me to hold before.
Lifting it, I opened the cover and saw that someone had written inside.
To Tristen . . .
But suddenly The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde snapped shut in my hands, causing me to jump back and drop it to the table, where Tristen scooped it up, stealing it out of reach. “We don’t need that anymore, Jill,” he said. “I’m done with that.”
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