Page 65 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
After everything she’s done, she still has this pull on me, dragging me in no matter how far I try to run.
My fucked up self can’t seem to stay away.
Milo grins, completely oblivious to the chaos running riot in my head. “Isaak wants us there sooner rather than later. He’s twitchy as fuck, you know how he gets when he’s planning something.”
“Planning or plotting?” I ask, in a flat voice.
He laughs, the sound low. “With Isaak? Same bloody thing.”
Rising from the sofa, he slips the lighter back into his pocket and saunters to the door. “Grab your things. We’re wheels up in an hour.”
I retreat into my room and take my bag, passport and phone.
When I step out again, the corridor hums faintly with movement, the echo of footsteps and muted conversation drifting through the hall.
Milo’s already gone, no doubt off to fetch his luggage. I lock the door and head for the lift.
Downstairs Isaak is waiting, phone in hand, Hunter stands beside him, all calm. Milo appears a moment later and we make our way to the waiting car.
Even as we walk, I can’t shake the need to know where Ophelia is and what she’s doing.
Once the car pulls away the thought lingers, perhaps I can breach the jet’s surveillance feed and have a look for myself.
After all, I’ve got a few hours to spare.
Chapter 22
Ophelia
We land in the Swiss Alps just after midday. The air is cold enough to sting my lungs, sunlight flashing off the snow in blinding sheets of white.
From the airport, we don’t head straight to the chalet.
Instead, we drive into town first, winding through perfect Swiss villages nestled between the ridges.
Octavia and Adelaide bicker the entire way, naturally, but the moment we stop, their shared love for fashion takes over.
We were meant to pick up a few essentials, ski jackets, trousers, gloves, but it turns into a full shopping expedition.
Coats, boots, matching après ski sets, and more designer bags than the car can reasonably hold.
By the time we’re finished, the sun’s already slipping behind the peaks, painting the snow in gold and violet. The car boot looks as if a luxury department store’s gone off inside it.
Adelaide’s driver waits by the car, already loading the endless bags. He’s one of her father’s men, quiet, stoic, and unmistakably dangerous. More bodyguard than chauffeur, which fits.
Adelaide Reyes is cartel blood.
Colombian.
When we finally turn into the long, winding drive, the chalet rises ahead, grand, glass fronted, and half buried in snow.
It’s breathtaking and far too perfect to feel real.
The driver steps out first, opening doors, hauling bags, what looks like enough luggage for a month, though we’re here barely a week.
The cold nips through my gloves as I lift one of my own, snow crunching crisply underfoot.
He helps us carry everything inside, sets the last case down in the hall, and offers a curt nod before walking back down the icy path to the car.
