Page 18 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

“Sorry.” Her cheeks flush with colour.

“You should take better care of yourself,” I snap, letting the cruelty bleed through.

Her brows pinch at that, and I loathe her for it. For acting as though none of it matters. For meeting my venom with bewilderment instead of guilt.

“I…” She begins, but stops herself, shaking her head as though dismissing the thought.

“I don’t usually make a habit of collapsing in the middle of a corridor and waking in someone’s lap,” she says instead, with a nervous laugh. “But these past few days have been… strange, to say the least.”

My frown deepens. Strange? Is she jesting? High? Or truly this oblivious?

She presses on, blind to the war she’s reigniting in me. “Still, thank you.”

And then she smiles… unguarded. As if she hasn’t ruined my life and left me bleeding.

“I’m Ophelia.” She extends her small, breakable hand, expecting me to take it, to introduce myself like a stranger.

I rise so abruptly she stumbles back, catching herself on her palms before pushing up to stand as well.

For the briefest bit, an unfamiliar emotion cuts through me, bloody guilt, of all things. It’s unwelcome, so I bury it deep.

She deserves worse.

I study her. Truly study her. The woman who wrecked me, who hollowed me out and left nothing in her wake, now daring to stand here and pretend we are nothing.

I close the distance between us until the tip of my shoe brushes hers. My hand clamps around the back of her neck, dragging her hard against me.

She gasps, startled, her lush lips parting on instinct.

Her face tilts up to mine, lashes lowered, breath uneven as my nose skims her cheek.

I hold her there, forcing her to feel every inch of my fury. When I speak, my voice is low against her skin.

“Don’t fucking pretend you don’t know who I am.”

Her breath falters. “I really don’t,” she lies, soft as sin. Because that’s what she is, a liar.

Always a liar.

Her scent coils around me, strawberries, ripe and maddening. It drags at my restraint until I am hanging by threads.

“If you insist on an introduction, let me be plain,” I whisper, each word laced with venom, “I am your worst fucking nightmare.”

And then I break. I crush my mouth to hers, savage and devouring.

She hesitates, fucking hesitates, and it burns hotter than rage.

I bite down on her lip until I taste blood. She gasps, and I take what’s mine, my tongue forcing past her lips.

She claws at me, her fingers hook into my shirt, and I tighten my grip at her nape, making her feel it, my fury, my possession, my ache.

When we finally tear apart, breath ragged, our foreheads fall together. I meet the eyes of the woman who destroyed me and deliver the truth she carved into my marrow.

“I thought you’d be my beginning. Instead, you became my end.”

I shove her back. Her skull knocks the wall, and she flinches.

That cursed pang of guilt sears my chest again, but I smother it mercilessly.