Page 69 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

But it’s Arlo my eyes find first.

He’s in dark jeans, a navy winter jacket, and a knitted hat that ought to look ridiculous, yet somehow doesn’t.

Something about it tugs at the edge of recognition, a flash of familiarity I can’t place. The thought barely forms before a sharp pain blooms at my temples.

I wince, pressing a hand to the side of my head.

He notices immediately, and takes a step towards me, concern flickering across that guarded face.

I lift a hand, stopping him before he can come any closer.

For a moment, I can’t look at the hat again, as if it’s the trigger itself. So instead, I look at him.

There’s nothing remotely boyish about Arlo. Everything about him is composed, the way he stands, the set of his jaw, the stillness that somehow carries more weight than words ever could.

His shoulders are broad beneath his jacket, his gloved hands resting loosely at his sides, but it’s the look on his face that does it, the kind of hard, unreadable expression that keeps people exactly where he wants them, at a distance.

Milo stands beside him, taller by a few inches than both Arlo and Isaak, broader too.

There’s a certain weight to him, muscle and mischief held together by sheer volatility.

His hair’s a wild tangle of dark curls he’s clearly never bothered to tame, and faint ink creeps along his hands and the side of his neck, flashes of it visible above his collar.

He catches me looking and grins, a little unhinged.

Isaak and Hunter linger just behind, quieter, and harder to read.

Both watchful.

Both dangerous.

I pull my gaze back to Arlo, narrowing my eyes.

I don’t understand what game he’s playing, or why he’s here.

Whole countries were supposed to separate us. But apparently, there’s no escaping the monster, not when he insists on finding me wherever I run.

Milo’s the first to move. He kicks off his boots, scattering snow in the entryway, then strips off his jacket.

The moment he steps forward, Octavia’s glare could cut glass, but he only grins, totally unfazed.

“What are you doing here, psycho?” she snaps, tugging her own jacket off and taking a cautious step back as he advances.

He tilts his head, mock wounded. “You thought you could run off and I wouldn’t follow? You wound me, spitfire.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to unleash something vicious, but he’s faster.

In a blink, he’s closed the space between them and slings her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing.

“Let me know which room is ours, baby,” I hear him say, already heading for the stairs.

“Fucking hell, you are not sleeping in my room, you psycho. Get lost, or I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“Ah, that’s your love language, isn’t it? You do know how hard you make me when you get filthy.”

Their voices fade as they disappear around the corner. I watch them go, eyes narrowing.

I’ll need to get Octavia alone and ask her about this. They don’t look like strangers, or even casual acquaintances. They move like people who know each other far too well.