Page 63 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

She strides to the door, then pauses, turning back to us with a faint, sardonic smile. “Let’s try not to kill each other over the holiday. I’d cancel if I could, but imagine explaining that to our families. So, pretend, coexist, and when we return, you can let it all burn again.”

The door closes behind her with a muted thud. I glance at Octavia and Piper, both silent in their corners, and shake my head.

These next few days, are going to be an exquisite kind of hell.

Chapter 21

Arlo

I press the final fold of fabric into place and pull the zip closed, forcing the suitcase to yield.

My phone lies face down on the dresser, its screen dark, but I don’t need to look at it to know exactly what I’ve been doing.

At precisely seven this morning, Ophelia left her dorm. I watched her descend the stairs, bag in hand, the others falling into step beside her.

I followed each camera feed as they crossed the courtyard, as their luggage was stowed, as the car rolled past the gates and out of sight.

Last night, it was the same. I’d listened to every word of their conversation.

And now, I know exactly where they’re going.

Adelaide’s records were laughably easy to breach, a few lines of code, a bypassed firewall, and there it was, the address of her family’s chalet in Switzerland.

So, no, despite knowing better, Ophelia isn’t leaving this island without me.

Certainly not to another country. Not while I still have breath in my lungs.

The plan taking shape in my head is reckless at best, but logic has never survived where she’s concerned.

I despise myself for it, for this fixation that corrodes reason and restraint, but hatred does nothing to dull the need. I can loathe her, I can loathe myself, and still, I can’t stop.

The moment I step into the living area, a knock pounds against the door, impatient and heavy handed.

I don’t need to ask who it is, Isaak never bothers knocking, Hunter at least understands civility, and Ido isn’t even on the island.

Which leaves me with one inevitable name.

I cross the floor and open the door. Milo’s grin greets me, annoying and incurable.

A lighter flicks open and shut in his hand, the small flame flaring and dying with each metallic click. It’s constant and restless, proof enough that the man’s nerves are wired wrong.

He shoulders past me without waiting for an invitation, brushing against my arm just enough to be irritating.

I close the door and fall in behind him. He collapses onto the sofa, boots planted on the table as though he owns the room.

I regard him for a beat, wondering, if I could get away with murder, whether anyone would notice if I throttled him here and sent him tumbling off the Elaris cliffs.

But he’s Milo Markev, Bratva blood through and through. He’s not worth the intolerable reckoning that would come knocking at my door.

Unfortunately.

“Tell me, what do I owe the displeasure of your company?” I ask, my voice even.

Milo smirks, lolling his head lazily. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

I stare at him. “What do you want?”

He tuts, feigning offence. “You’re tense, mate. Brooding again. What’s the matter, Ophelia not working her magic lately? Thought she’d have pulled that stick out of your arse by now.”