Page 23 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Midnight blue darkens to dead black. A low sound escapes his throat, but he says nothing.

“It’s healing well,” the nurse says lightly. “Just bruising, as the doctor told you. It will take time.”

“I’ll take a look at your stitches now,” she goes on, leaning in to examine the line. “Everything looks good. We’ll keep them in for another two or three days.”

She continues with a brief concussion check, testing my pupils, asking orientation questions, before moving on to my medication and diabetes. I tell her everything is in order, leaving out the fainting spells.

I dress while she makes notes in my chart. “Could I have something extra for the headaches?” I ask.

She glances up. “I’ll consult the doctor, though with your current medication I doubt she’ll add anything. The headaches are likely post concussive amnes—”

“I understand,” I cut across quickly, before she can finish. “But something to dull the pain, please.”

“This isn’t constant, is it?” she asks.

I nod.

“So you get a sharp strike of pain, and then it passes within minutes?”

I nod again.

“In that case, it’s not unusual in your condition,” she says carefully. “I would advise against additional medication on a regular basis. Stick to what’s been prescribed, and if the episodes worsen, we’ll review.”

I thank her, sling my bag over my shoulder, and hop down from the bed. I avoid the man in the chair and move past him without pause.

Outside, the wind takes my hair and the sky has gone leaden, rain threatens. I head for the main building and, a few paces behind, the man falls into step beside me. We enter together, climb the wide staircase and continue down the long corridor toward my class. He remains close enough that his presence hums through me.

I’m almost at my classroom, grateful for the doorway that promises escape, when a shove throws me back against the stone.

My bag slips from my shoulder and clatters to the floor. The breath is knocked out of me, the world narrows to the press of him in my space.

He leans down, face inches from mine, his nose almost brushing mine. I can feel his warm, minty breath and the trace of his cologne, wild berries and rain.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he demands, “Why are you covered in bruises? And what did she mean by your… condition? I know she wasn’t referring to your diabetes.”

“Get off me,” I snap.

“Answer me.” He grits the words through his teeth.

“This is none of your business.” I bite back.

A flicker crosses his face. “You’re right.” He closes his eyes, breathes in, and when they open again that loathing is back, with brutal force.

“I. Hate. You,” he spits.

“I’m beginning to think the feeling’s mutual,” I throw back.

He continues without acknowledging my reply. “And yet I can’t keep away from you. You invade my head, my heart, my blood, my whole being, without permission. I loathe you for it. I despise you. And still, there’s this need to know what happened to you, this need to fix it, or to bury the person who hurt you six feet under…” He breaks off with a violent shake of his head.

“You need medical attention more than I do,” I say, because I can’t help it. “You can’t keep kissing strangers, following them and hating them all within a matter of hours. Choose something and be done with it.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “This—this thing with strangers again. You’ve always been a good actor, I’ll give you that. I was just too blind to see it, I suppose.” Anger skitters across him and the air between us crackles.

He watches me as if searching for recognition, for a crack in the glass. When there’s nothing, he huffs a rough breath. “Arlo.”

I look at him, stunned. The man is a study in contradiction, hot and cold in the span of a heartbeat.

“Arlo,” I whisper, because the name fits somewhere I do not yet understand.