Page 21 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

The three of them don’t so much as glance at their own table. Instead, they make straight for ours.

Midnight eyes takes the seat directly opposite me, his thigh knocking the table as he lowers himself.

Piper goes still beside me, her gaze sweeping the hall as though searching for someone, before lowering back to her book. Her fingers grip the edges so tightly I half expect the spine to splinter.

Adelaide arches a brow, appearing collected, though the tension in her jaw gives her away.

Octavia glares at them with such venom it is a wonder they do not drop dead on the spot.

I may not yet know their names, but the weight of their presence tells me enough.

The doors open once more, and another man enters. He’s older than the others, late twenties, perhaps early thirties, with broad shoulders and a tailored suit. His jaw is sharp, his expression detached, giving nothing away. He doesn’t look like a student, and he certainly doesn’t behave like one. Faculty don’t dine with us, but he doesn’t seem to care, lowering himself into the empty seat opposite Piper.

I hear her inhale sharply, though she masks it quickly, eyes dropping back to her book. She turns a page as though nothing at all is out of place.

My attention shifts when the man across from me lets out a low rumble. It pulls my gaze back to him.

His eyes cut between me and the teacher I had been watching, sharp with a ferocity that feels almost dangerous. If I didn’t know better, I would think him jealous. But that’s impossible. Not after he made it painfully clear how much he loathes me.

He holds my stare, saying nothing. My chest tightens, my heart rattles against my ribs. Then he suddenly asks. “How the fuck did you get that cut on your forehead?”

Of all the things he might have said, this is the last I expected.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. The truth seems to disarm him.

“Are you going to tell me your name,” I blurt, “or must I keep calling you midnight eyes in my head?”

His expression shifts so fast it makes my head spin, darkening into malice. “Do not ever… ever in your pathetic life call me that. You lost the fucking right.”

The words strike harder than I expect. I don’t understand why. I don’t want his anger. I don’t know what crime could merit such loathing.

The tension grows unbearable. Around me, the girls are locked in stare contests or murmuring in low voices with the other men, which only adds to the strain. My appetite vanishes entirely.

Another class awaits, and I still need my bandages changed. Remaining here feels intolerable.

I gather my bag and stand. The man opposite rises as well, scraping his chair back in a way that makes half the hall glance over. His gaze fixes on me, then on the bowl I didn’t finish, then back again, as if the sight of my unfinished food offends him.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of more attention and head for the exit. He follows. The stares and muted whispers confirm it, but I can feel the heat of his body at my back regardless.

Marcel is seated at one of the nearby tables. When his eyes catch mine, he nods and offers a small, polite smile. I return it automatically. Behind me, the man closes the distance further, a low sound rumbling in his chest.

I have known Marcel for years, through schoolrooms, boarding houses, and now this academy. He belongs to old money. Once, long ago, he confessed some manner of feeling for me. I never encouraged it. Whatever we are, it falls short of friendship, courteous acquaintances, nothing more.

Two years of my life are gone, and much may have shifted in the meantime. Yet when I look at Marcel, I feel nothing, only the dull assurance of safety.

The man behind me is another matter entirely. His signals are erratic, flaring red like a warning. He feels dangerous, and danger has always carried its own peculiar allure.

And deep down, I already know, I will not be able to ignore it.

Chapter 7

Ophelia

The tension winds so tightly in my chest I expect something to give. If only Bellamy were here, his steady breath, the familiar weight beneath the saddle, the rhythm of hooves against earth.

He has always been my truest release.

Instead, I am left with this man trailing my every step, and a confusion in my veins I cannot name.