Page 54 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Low again.

Odd, considering I don’t feel it nearly as much as the numbers suggest I should. I reach for a carton of juice and drink it slowly, waiting for the familiar rush to level me out.

At the door I grab my key card and phone, and step outside. The dormitory is hushed at this hour, the corridors empty.

Beyond the doorway, the world is still dark, the kind of pre-dawn quiet where every sound seems to carry.

I slip in my AirPods, and a soft playlist hums to life. The time reads just before six.

I follow the path that curves past the main academy building and out toward the stables.

An occasional early riser crosses my path, but the grounds are mostly empty.

That familiar feeling creeps in, the sense of being watched. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. Only the faint outlines of trees and the glisten of damp grass in the low light.

Bellamy is waiting when I arrive, ears flicking as soon as he recognises me.

I greet him softly, running a hand down the length of his face before setting about our routine.

I check each hoof, and fasten the bridle.

Once everything’s in its place, I lead him out of the stable into the crisp morning air, the faint scent of hay still lingering.

We start with an easy trot in the outdoor arena, the rhythm of his hooves a steady beat beneath me. After a few laps, I guide him into light jumps, nothing too demanding, just enough to wake his muscles.

Droplets of rain begin to fall, dotting my sleeves and Bellamy’s mane.

It’s not unpleasant. If anything, the drizzle feels refreshing, cleansing in a way I can’t explain.

From where I sit astride Bellamy, I have a clear view of the football grounds beyond the fence. The team’s already in training, the coaches shout orders while the players run drills across the pitch.

And then the weight of a gaze hits me.

When I glance over…Arlo.

Even from this distance his dark eyes lock on mine. He’s in his jersey—Vass, 11 printed across the back, moving through some kind of conditioning drill, push-ups and sprints, muscles shifting and tightening beneath the fabric.

His expression gives nothing away, but the intensity of his stare goes straight through me.

I hold his gaze for a moment longer than I should. I take him in, the outline of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens, and before the familiar flash of hatred appears in his eyes, I turn away and press my heels gently into Bellamy’s sides, returning us to the course.

When we finish, I dismount and lead Bellamy back to the stable. I wipe him down with a towel, check his legs again, and refill his water and feed.

His breath fans softly against my palm as I stroke his muzzle. “Good boy,” I murmur before closing the stable door behind me.

I take the long route out, avoiding the football field altogether.

As I round the path near the rink, I almost collide with Piper.

She’s just stepping out, skates in hand, her leggings and fitted jacket still clinging with the faint chill of the ice.

She looks startled for a second before managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Finished training for the morning?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes. I’d stay longer, but I’ve got class soon.” Her voice is soft, almost distant.

I can’t help but smile at her expression. “You always light up when you talk about skating.”