Page 19 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

I turn on my heel, leaving her standing there, stunned, reeling, lips parted and bleeding from my bite.

Chapter 6

Ophelia

I watch him leave, his back rigid as he disappears down the corridor, and I remain rooted, lips still stinging from his bite, tingling as though branded.

My fingers lift of their own accord, brushing over the tender ache. The taste of iron lingers. I kissed a stranger, and what a kiss it was. The thought unsettles me, guilt tangling with anger and the faintest trace of loathing.

What on earth possessed me to allow it?

Am I truly so reckless now?

That face, striking, impossibly beautiful, yet marred by a hatred I cannot fathom. His words, cold and venomous, have lodged somewhere I cannot reach.

I should not care. He is nothing to me. And yet it pierced me all the same.

Rage swells within me. Who does he think he is? To behave with such arrogance, to kiss me with the intensity of a man in love—as though such a thing were even conceivable.

He is astranger.

A shift of movement breaks my thoughts. The grand doors of the hall swing open, and students spill out. Their stares catch on me, curiosity pressing down with a suffocating weight.

Trust me to know how to make an entrance, or an exit, for that matter.

I reach for my bag, only now realising I must have grabbed it in my rush to leave the room.

I check my blood sugar, then pull out a small chocolate bar and tell myself the fainting was nothing more than recklessness, that I hadn’t eaten after seeing I was low.

Not because of those strange flashes pressing in on me. But were they memories… or only fragments of my imagination?

Around me, the assembly dissolves into a low murmur as students drift out in clusters. I glance over the press of dark clothes, scanning for Octavia, or Piper, or anyone—until at last I spot my sister.

She’s across the hall, walking beside a man I don’t recognise. Tall, with a strong jaw and dark hair falling carelessly into his face, one I’m fairly certain walked in with the midnight eyed stranger who rattled me earlier.

Octavia doesn’t seem to notice me, too intent on fending him off. Her anger is clear, though the man only looks amused, watching her with an attention that sends an unpleasant shiver through me. They don’t look like strangers.

I bite into the chocolate and shake my head, but questions churn regardless. I need to know what is going on, her reaction when they entered the assembly, and now this.

Turning, I descend the main staircase and make for the dining hall. With Type 1 diabetes I already have to be mindful about when I eat, add a concussion, amnesia, and a stitched forehead, and I can’t afford to neglect it now.

I still have some time before first period, Cognitive Ethology, part of my Animal Behavioural Psychology degree.

At least I was granted the freedom to study something of my own choosing.

My father scarcely cares what it is. He knows I’m already saddled with etiquette and other pointless courses meant to mould me into a perfect wife.

The marriage is already arranged, and I’ll be paraded as the perfect ornament, the polished arm at some man’s side. Whatever I choose here means nothing to him.

We agreed on three years. No more. He made it clear, no Master’s, no further indulgence.

And now this is my final year, my last scrap of freedom before Florence claims me for good, before my future husband is likely waiting the moment I step off the jet.

I shake the thought aside. There’s no point dwelling, I’ve always known my role. If I’d been born a son, I would have led. Unfortunately for him, I am a daughter. But even daughters have their uses.

After a quick breakfast and my injection, I arrive at class with only minutes to spare. The room is half empty. Morning light spills through the arched windows, gilding the desks in muted gold.

The lecturer arrives, a man in his mid-forties with neatly pressed cuffs, and launches into a lengthy discussion on behavioural conditioning in domesticated animals.