Page 46 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Unacceptable.

My phone pings with an incoming call. I glance at the screen, my father. I answer.

“Good evening,” he says, his tone clipped. “I hear you’ve started playing again. A match today, wasn’t it?” Straight to the point.

“Yes. We won.” I don’t know why I bother with the detail, nor do I correct him, I never actually stopped playing.

“Hmm.” His tone is thin, disdain woven into every syllable. “It’s a waste of time and you know it. Football. You should be focused on your studies, not chasing a ball across a pitch. Do youtruly believe I’ll hand the company to a spoiled brat who favours games over legacy?”

I let his words wash over me, the same sermon he’s given a hundred times. Disapproval has always been his chosen language.

He keeps droning. I speak over him.

“I have to go.”

“I haven’t finished—”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Nothing is more important than your fut—”

I end the call. He’ll be livid, but I couldn’t care less.

By the time I reach my room I’m moving two steps at a time. I drop my kit bag, head to the kitchenette and throw something together, eggs and toast.

I eat at the counter, phone propped on the worktop, scrolling between feeds as I chew.

Afterwards I change into black jeans and a simple black hoodie. I grab my mask, slip my phone into my pocket, key card in the same hand, and head downstairs.

The men are already in the lobby, masks loose in their hands. We nod and move out.

Milo looks wired. “Damn, I wish we could proper fuck someone up tonight,” he says, pouting. “I miss doing whatever the hell we want, not waiting for the Circle to give us permission to spill some blood.” His tone is sour and hungry.

Isaak merely smirks. “All in good time. For now we play by their rules.”

We head for the woods, the track narrowing until the thud of bass leaks through the trees. Masks go on as we walk. By the time we reach the clearing, it’s heaving, the night well underway.

We take drinks from the trestle set up near the fire and claim the same rough wooden chairs we had last time.

I’ve barely settled when a shadow falls across me. I look up to find… Zahara, or whatever the hell she calls herself.

The look she shoots me makes it plain I’ve said that aloud.

“It’sZara,” she snaps, her lips pursed. Milo barks out a laugh.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice flat.

She gives me a syrupy little smile she no doubt thinks enticing but lands nowhere near. “Thought we could talk.”

“Get lost.” My tone leaves no room for mistake. After the stunt she pulled last time, she’s lucky I don’t squeeze the air out of her lungs.

She tilts her head, still pressing. “Come on. We had a good time before. We could—”

Isaak cuts across. “If bygood timeyou mean ending up flat on your arse in the dirt, then I dread to think what a bad one looks like.”

My patience thins to nothing.

“Get lost,” I repeat, this time with a dead edge that makes her falter. She swallows, steps back, and has the sense to leave.