Page 39 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Afterwards, I head straight to the dining hall. Riding has restored my appetite.

I take my usual seat, the table is empty, none of the others here yet. I place my order and pull out my phone.

A photo from this morning, Bellamy against the pale sunrise, goes up on my Instagram story. Then I scroll.

Naturally, that gossip page is everywhere again, St. Monarche´’s own private tabloid. The Ferrum Syndicate dominates the feed, masks, the party, rumours piling by the minute.

I lock my phone just as my food arrives, and that’s when Octavia strides in, Milo behind her, Arlo close behind him.

My heart trips, infuriatingly, as my eyes meet Arlo’s, but I force it still.

Octavia slips into the seat beside me, greeting me lightly with a quick hug. They order their food, and it arrives soon after. Milo’s plate is only meat, the man might actually have an obsession.

I drop my gaze back to my açaí bowl. We eat in silence. Arlo doesn’t look at me, and for that I’m almost grateful.

At least there are no cruel words. I’d dreaded seeing him again today after last night, but he’s pretending it never happened.

Even though it sends a pang through me, I ignore it. This is for the best.

I finish first and rise from my seat. Octavia glances up at me. “Class starts in five,” I tell her.

She nods. “I’ll see you after.”

I leave, and though I feel eyes on my back, I don’t turn.

Classes pass in a blur. By the time I notice the clock again, evening has already drawn in. Octavia had messaged earlier, telling me to meet her for dinner, so I head straight to the dining hall.

It’s packed now, far fuller than it was this morning. The low ceiling hums with voices, lost amid the clatter of cutlery and trays. Half the academy seems crammed inside.

Our table is already full—Adelaide and Piper in their usual seats, Octavia spots me as I walk in and lifts her hand in greeting.

The Ferrum men are there too, and even Mr Wardgrave. I’d already read everything I could find about them online and on social media, and I’d asked my sister enough questions to put names to faces.

I slip into the chair beside my sister and place my order.

Octavia leans in. “I saw you left the party early last night,” she murmurs, her voice pitched low. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.” My lips part again, on the verge of saying more, but the arrival of trays interrupts, silverware clattering as dishes are set down before us. The moment slips away.

Milo Markev, who is one of the Russian Bratva heirs, eyes his portion as though it’s a personal insult. He prods at one of the round shapes with his fork, lifts it, and squints suspiciously.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, glaring at the thing.

“A meatball,” Arlo replies, his tone dry, not even looking up from his own plate.

Milo’s scowl deepens. “No. Absolutely not. This is not a meatball. It’s animitation, a fraud in spherical form.”

Arlo deigns to glance over, his face unreadable. “They’reveganmeatballs.”

Milo blinks slowly, twice, like his mind needs a moment to catch up. Outrage finally settles across his features. “Vegan meatballs? Why the fuck would I order vegan meatballs?”

“Why are you asking me why you ordered them?” Arlo replies, entirely unbothered.

Adelaide spears her own portion, takes a bite, and raises one perfectly arched brow at Arlo. “I ordered lasagna. This tastes suspiciously like it was made with soya cheese.”

Milo makes a face. “Is that even real cheese?”

Isaak Markev, Milo’s cousin and a Bratva heir himself, answers in a matter of fact tone. “Soya cheese has been used for decades as a dairy free alternative to traditional cheese. It’s derived from soy milk, a coagulated product of soybeans, and often blended with—”