Page 53 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

And I already know what he’ll say, that I’ve shamed him, humiliated the family name, made myself undesirable to any respectable future husband.

What he doesn’t know, what must never reach him, is that I’m not even a virgin anymore. The thought alone chills me.

I can already picture the kind of fury that would follow, and I don’t mean raised voices or slammed doors.

I mean the kind that ends with me being auctioned off to the highest bidder, or worse, sent to a brothel. It’s not as if he hasn’t threatened it before.

The truth is, I was more astonished by that realisation than anything else. From the fragments I remember, I’ve always kept my distance from men, not because I wasn’t interested, but because I was afraid.

And I never met anyone who felt worth the risk.

I exhale, then glance back down at the picture.

It’s me and Arlo. People are dancing all around us, blurred shapes and lights in the background, but we’re the focus.

His hand rests low on my stomach, his head buried against my neck, and my eyes—my eyes are glowing. The expression on my face is one I don’t dare examine too closely.

His mask hides his features, but even so, he’s unmistakable to me. Tall, broad shouldered, dressed in dark clothes that somehow make him look sinful.

I toss my phone onto the bed and sit up, my heart beating a little too fast for comfort.

My feet ache faintly under the dressings, so I start unwrapping the bandages.

Once they’re off, I study the wounds. They’ve healed better than expected, only faint marks left now.

I reach for the drawer in my bedside table and pull out the small jar of ointment. Probably the last time I’ll need it. I rub a thin layer over each scar, just to be sure.

When I’m done, I stand and make my way to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pat my skin dry before smoothing on my cream.

At my vanity, I do a touch of makeup, nothing excessive, just concealer, a hint of blush, and a soft pink gloss.

I run a brush through my hair, taming the strands until they fall neatly, then braid a small section at the front and secure it with the diamond clip. It glints faintly as I tilt my head.

Pleased enough with my reflection, I rise and step back into the bathroom. The pieces of jewellery I left scattered across the counter last night sit in a careless pile. I gather them into my hand and carry them back to the vanity.

Taking my seat once more, I open the top drawer and lift the lid of my jewellery box, placing the pieces inside. The sight that greets me makes me pause.

I’ve always had a taste for fine things, but this feels almost excessive. It’s as if, in the years I lost, I have somehow multiplied my collection.

Silver and gold gleam back at me, gemstones strewn among them, each unique in its own way.

I pick out a delicate moon shaped necklace and its matching earrings, then slide two bracelets onto my wrist, one adorned with tiny moons, the other with stars.

I choose two rings for my right hand, one for my thumb and one for my middle finger, and a few more for my left.

Ever since watching a documentary on mining, how vast stretches of forest were cut down, the land torn apart just to unearth a few precious stones, I haven’t been able to bear the thought of the real thing.

The images stayed with me, animals driven from their homes, habitats destroyed beyond repair. The entire industry struck me as barbaric, no matter how exquisite the outcome.

So, for years, I stopped wearing jewellery altogether. Then I discovered that you could buy pieces made with lab created stones, indistinguishable from the real ones.

It seemed a fair compromise.

I place the box back into the vanity drawer and step into the closet, dressing for the stables, jodhpurs, boots, and a fitted jacket.

In the kitchen, I prick my finger and check my blood sugar.