Page 145 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
I frown and glance around until I spot my glucose kit buried somewhere in the chaos of my bag. I unzip the case, and check my levels. The numbers flash up, low. That would explain the light headedness.
Just as I start toward the kitchen, where I know the glucose tablets are, the door bursts open, so hard the sound makes me jump. The lock gives way with a crack.
I gasp, my heart lurching into my throat.
And then I see him.
“Arlo,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared me half to death! What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’ve broken my door… again.”
He looks as though he’s sprinted the entire way here, his chest heaving, his eyes fierce and searching. When they finally find mine, some of that wild intensity softens into relief.
“You’re low,” he says simply.
My brows knit. “I know that. But how do you know that?”
He shrugs, not remotely apologetic. “I connected your glucose meter to my phone. I get alerts when your levels drop.”
“You what?” I stare at him. “Why would you do that?”
He takes a slow step closer, his voice deep. “Because I’ll always take care of you. And I need to know when you don’t feel well.”
I glance toward the broken door, and his eyes follow mine. His mouth twitches. “I’ll have it fixed before tonight,” he promises. “You have my word.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” he says, finally letting a faint smirk appear. “But you still love me.”
My pulse stutters.
I wish he hadn’t said that. Because he’s right.
I do love him, always have. But love doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t undo the hurt.
Before I can think of a response, he’s suddenly closer, holding something out to me. A small chocolate bar.
“Eat,” the word rough in his throat.
I blink, but take it from his hand. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t move as I unwrap it, his eyes tracking every motion. Only when I’ve eaten half does he exhale, tension easing from his shoulders.
His gaze drops, to my hand.
To my bare hand.
His expression hardens instantly, the warmth vanishing from his face.
“Where’s your ring?” he asks, his voice low and edged with danger.
I still, my breath catching. “In my jewellery box.”
“In your jewellery box,” he repeats slowly, taking a step closer. “And why, pray tell, would it be there instead of on your finger, Ophelia?”
My mouth parts, but no sound escapes. His stare holds me captive.
I took it off earlier today, perhaps just to provoke him, knowing he’d notice eventually. But the look in his eyes now… it sends a shiver down my spine, my thighs instinctively pressing together. This man will be the end of me.
His jaw tightens, and before I can move, he closes the distance between us, his hand finding my throat.
