Page 67 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Piper rolls her eyes. “If someone comes after us, I’ll scream loud enough for you to hear my last words.”

Octavia smirks as she pulls on her gloves. “And if we freeze to death, blame Adelaide.”

“Blame yourself,” Adelaide replies evenly, not even glancing up from whatever she’s doing by the counter.

Octavia turns her gaze to me instead. “Check your blood sugar while we’re gone,” she says, then tilts her head towards Adelaide. “And don’t let her near anything sharp. Or flammable.”

Adelaide looks up, picks up a metal spoon from the counter, and launches it straight at Octavia’s head.

My sister ducks easily, her expression unimpressed.

“That’s assault,” she mutters, though there’s a hint of amusement in her tone.

Adelaide’s smile curves. “Pity I missed.”

The door shuts behind them, the sound echoing through the quiet room.

I exhale, shaking my head. Those two need to sort themselves out.

Octavia’s temper and Adelaide’s walls are a disaster waiting to happen. I don’t buy Adelaide’s façade for a moment, I know there’s a reason behind it, a story she’s not telling.

I just wish my sister could see it too. But she’s too impulsive… and hurt, and Adelaide’s pride isn’t helping the situation in the slightest.

I turn towards the kitchen and step closer. She doesn’t move until I’m near enough to force her to shift aside, grumbling under her breath, the sound low.

“Shouldn’t you be checking your blood sugar first?” she snaps, not bothering to look at me.

“Not that you deserve an answer,” I reply evenly, “not after the way you’ve been acting. But no. I check before meals, and seeing as I’ve not eaten and don’t plan to in the next few minutes, I’d say I’m fine.”

My gaze drifts to the half unpacked groceries on the counter, then back to her. “Go sit down. I’ll make dinner. You can’t cook to save your life.”

Her face barely shifts, but there’s that faint, taunting glimmer in her eyes.

She doesn’t argue.

Instead, she opens the fridge, rummages, and pulls out a small glass container. Without a word, she crosses to the island and takes a seat, twisting the lid open.

The contents catch my eye immediately, spiny red shells.

Rambutan.

I arch a brow. “Since when are you so taken with exotic fruit?”

She plucks one from the container, turning it idly between her fingers, ignoring the question.

“Honestly,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “how can anyone eat that? It looks revolting. Does it even taste remotely decent?”

Adelaide only shrugs before sinking her teeth into the flesh. “It’s my favourite.”

“Since when?” I press, studying her expression.

Something cold flashes in her eyes. “Things change. Oh—” her mouth tilts in a faint, cutting smile, “I forgot. You wouldn’t remember.”

I don’t ask how she knows about the gaps in my memory. I’m certain I never mentioned it to her, not since we stopped speaking properly.

I set the knife down and meet her gaze. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I see right through you.”

“There’s nothing to see through, Ophelia,” she replies smoothly. “You’re simply too naïve to realise it.”