Page 60 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
His breath grazes the shell of my ear, warm against my skin. I straighten instinctively, every nerve pulled taut beneath his closeness.
He presses a slow kiss to my neck, then lifts his gaze back to mine, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Then, without warning, he closes the distance and bites my lower lip.
The sting is brief, but the heat that follows is far more consuming.
I can’t decide if it’s discomfort or something dangerously close to pleasure, especially when his tongue follows, tasting the blood he’s drawn.
Before I can even process what’s happening, the book slips from his grasp and lands at my feet.
A second later, he turns on his heel and walks away between the rows of shelves.
I stand there for a moment, dazed, pulse still racing, before gathering myself and returning to my table, willing my breath to appear steady.
It’s empty. His things are gone. When I glance around, I spot him near the exit, stopped mid stride and speaking with Milo.
I sit down and open the book, reaching for my pencil case. When I unzip it to take out a pen, a folded slip of paper is waiting inside.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a wave of cold panic spreads through me.
With trembling fingers I reach for it, then quickly glance up.
Arlo is watching me, his expression inscrutable but touched with confusion. I force myself to take out a pen, pretending nothing is wrong, praying he hasn’t noticed the note—or, at the very least, won’t think anything of it.
When I look back up, he’s gone. With shaking hands, I unfold the paper.
How does it feel to wake up each day knowing he never will?
After all, you made certain of that, didn’t you?
Chapter 20
Ophelia
My suitcase lies open across the bed, half packed and already in disarray.
I move between the closet and the bed, pulling out jumpers, coats, and thick wool scarves, telling myself I’ll keep it light, but the pile only grows more unmanageable.
Winter clothes have their own will, they’re heavy, stubborn things that refuse to be tamed.
We’re meant to leave either this evening or tomorrow morning for our annual Thanksgiving holiday, a tradition that’s lasted for years.
Exams are done, the break has begun, and for the first time in weeks, I can almost pretend to breathe.
Almost.
Every year, without fail, the five of us girls spend the holiday at Adelaide’s chalet in the Swiss mountains.
This year, there will only be four.
A dull ache blooms in my chest as I fold another jumper. Eleanor’s absence hangs over everything, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
No one’s said much about it lately, but we all feel it. She’s still missing, no word or trace of her, nothing to assure us she’s safe.
The tradition began innocently enough, girls’ trips filled with laughter and a sense of freedom.
But beneath all that, it was always more political than sentimental.
