Page 7 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Ours belongs to the five of us, daughters of the founding families. The other is reserved for those directly beneath us in the hierarchy.

That’s how it works here. This place runs on power, on bloodlines, on money, and they don’t pretend otherwise. They make the divisions plain, almost proud of it. I’d say take it or leave it, but there isn’t really a choice. You don’t escape what you are born into.

In a way, I don’t mind living here. The fact there are only two of these private residences, set apart from the rest, is almost a blessing.

It affords us privacy, and a welcome distance from the incessant curiosity of the other students, who will seize upon thesmallest detail of our lives and twist it into scandal. They’d trade a rumour faster than they’d trade their own dignity.

And what I like best is that my friends are only ever a door away. There’s a certain comfort in being so close to one another, while still keeping a little space of our own.

The only way to our residence is a narrow private road, the one we follow now. Most students live in the larger dormitory beside the main building, but ours is set apart.

It’s a ten minute walk from here to the heart of the grounds where classes are held. Each of us has a vehicle assigned, with drivers on call should we wish it, but I rarely bother. I prefer the walk, especially in the rain. There’s a stillness in it, a kind of calm nothing else quite gives me.

As we continue walking, I catch sight of the academy’s towers through the trees. Had we turned left into the woods instead, following the path deeper, we would have reached the lake, a beautiful stretch of water hidden amongst the trees.

As we near the main building, more students come into view. Some wheel suitcases behind them, likely just arrived and still settling in. Others head for the gates or wander the paths in small groups.

On the surface, everyone looks absorbed in their own affairs, though it’s clear they’re not. Conversations dip the moment we pass, voices lowered to a murmur. Others drop their gaze the instant mine lifts, eyes darting aside as if even looking at me might cost them something. The tension in the air is impossible to ignore.

My brows crease when I notice a cluster of girls watching. One points me out, another pulls a face I can’t read, and a third actually raises her phone to take a picture.

God. The cut on my forehead is still bleeding. That image will be circling social media before the hour’s out, perhaps even plastered across one of those scandal sites.

Father will be livid.

I force myself to let it go, there’s no sense dwelling. I’ve far too much else weighing on me to spend energy on them.

Octavia, however, doesn’t let it go. She veers without warning, plucks the phone straight from the girl’s hand, and hurls it down onto the stone path.

The shatter echoes against the courtyard walls, drawing a ripple of gasps from the onlookers. My sister steps in close, her lips curved into a sharp smile.

“Phones are replaceable. Fingers aren’t. Think carefully about what you want broken next.”

The girl pales, frozen. Octavia turns on her heel, brushing invisible dust from her hands as if the matter were settled, and slips back into step beside me.

I don’t comment. This is Octavia, unpredictable, feral in her protectiveness. And God help anyone who forgets it.

We reach the front of the academy, its scale pressing down on us the closer we stand. The towers cut into the grey sky, carved from dark stone that gleams faintly in the damp light.

Rain beads along the slate roof and iron framed windows, giving the place an austere sheen, as though it were carried forward from another century. Inside are the lecture halls, the library, and the dean’s wing.

If you follow the path to the right, there’s an annex, newer in design, which holds the dining hall, the medical wing, and a few other student facilities. We head straight there, pushing through the glass doors.

The scent of antiseptic greets me immediately. Behind the desk, a nurse looks up, her brows rise, and then her face softens with concern. “Oh, love,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you seen to. You’ve taken quite a knock.”

She rises from her chair and gestures for me to follow. “Come along, the doctor will see you shortly.”

I nod without a word and trail after her, Octavia close at my side. She leads us down a short corridor and opens a door, holding it until we’ve stepped through. The examination room is empty, white and quiet.

“Have a seat there,” she says, tilting her head toward the bed. I cross to it and sit, while my sister lowers herself into the chair nearby. The nurse gives a polite nod.

“I won’t be long,” she assures, and with that she slips out, leaving the door closed behind her.

I part my lips to ask Octavia something, anything, but she gives the smallest shake of her head.

“Not here,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking briefly about the room. My brows knit, but I say nothing.

I sit back, unsettled, the weight of her warning pressing harder than the pain in my skull.