Page 5 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

And that’s not us.

At least, it wasn’t. Not as I remember it.

Then again, I’m not certain of anything anymore. Even with the sudden glimpse I’ve recovered from last night, I still don’thave the answer to how I ended up hurt, or why I was covered in blood at all.

I turn away and head back toward the sitting room, forcing her to follow. I hear her footsteps behind me, and I can feel her eyes on me the whole way, watching, noting every shift in my posture.

When I falter, only slightly, because this damned headache refuses to ease and the dizziness will not let me go, she closes the space between us so quickly it takes me a moment to register. Suddenly she is there, guiding me down onto the sofa with a gentle touch.

She reaches for the glucose meter on the table and takes her place beside me, lifting my hand, just as she’s done countless times.

Her hands are cold as she pricks my fingertip and waits for the monitor to flicker to life. We both watch the screen.

Seconds later she’s already on her feet, moving towards the kitchen. She returns with a granola bar and presses it into my palm.

“You’re low,” she says, her tone edged with annoyance.

“Thank you,” I reply, unwrapping it slowly. I begin to eat, though the taste barely registers.

Her gaze shifts back to my forehead. “How did it happen?” she asks.

I blink at her. “I was hoping you’d be the one to tell me.”

Her brows draw together, and she parts her lips to speak, but the words slip from me first.

“What happened to your hair? I do love it, it suits you beautifully. But last night it was blonde. When did you even find the time to dye it?”

She blinks, visibly thrown, genuine confusion flickers in her eyes. “Last night?” she echoes, her voice tentative.

Then she shakes her head. “What are you talking about Ophelia? I dyed it years ago.”

I stare at her, unable to move, certain even my heart has stalled for a beat. I hear the words, I understand them, and yet I can’t seem to process them.

“Years ago?” My voice catches. “What… I—what?

It’s too much.

Too strange.

I had hoped, naively, that she might offer clarity. Even a single thread I could follow back to sense. Instead, from the very first sentence, I feel myself slipping further out of place. Further from anything familiar.

“Ophelia,” she says softly, that tone she reserves for me alone. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The party,” I answer after a pause.

She inclines her head. “The one given by the Ferrum Syndicate. Yes.”

“Ferrum… what?”

“You know,” she replies evenly. “The faction that rules Velmark Academy.”

My brows crease. “Velmark Academy? Don’t be absurd. I’ve never set foot in that place.”

We attend St. Monarché Institute. The academy was built by the four founding families, and one of them is ours. Velmark may be the same, a creation of their own founding families, five instead of four, but they have always been our rivals.

At these two academies attend only heirs of powerful families. And by powerful, I mean mafia syndicates and elite businesses. You don’t simply stumble into a place like this. You must belong to the right bloodlines, entry is never granted to outsiders.

Those who stand with us, the four families, whether through business arrangements or marriage alliances, send their heirs toSt. Monarché. Civil enough with one another, yes, though never truly friends, no one in this world is untouched by ambition.