Page 15 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
“Your coffee,” I say, nodding toward the cup.
“You’re a lifesaver. Black, right? Not trying to poison me with milk?”
I roll my eyes. “Indeed. As black and bitter as your soul. And for the record, you wouldn’t die if you drank milk.”
She shudders. “Don’t joke about it. I’d absolutely die. Or at least vomit, yes, definitely vomit.”
I roll my eyes again. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who despises milk quite as much as you.”
“Despises is putting it mildly,” she retorts, and I laugh, relieved to glimpse the sister I know.
Octavia is chaos and charm in equal measure. Brilliant, loyal, lethal when crossed, and utterly unfiltered when it comes to protecting those she loves.
People call her a psycho, but that reflects more on them than on her.
She hides behind the attitude, always has.
Something changed in her long ago, the bright, golden girl slipped away, and in her place came this reckless rebel, forever testing limits, forever testing herself.
She never admits what truly weighs on her, never lets the cracks show. She buries it all and carries on.
I only wish she’d let it out, cry, tell me what shifted, but as the years have passed, I’ve given up hope of that. Now she seems more determined than ever to keep the pretence alive.
She snatches up her bag and her coffee, and together we leave her dorm.
The lift carries us down, and outside the air greets us, colder than the sun suggests.
A black car waits at the curb, the driver suited and expressionless as he steps forward to open the door.
We slide inside. Within minutes, we’re at the foot of the main building. When we step out, I murmur a quiet “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod, his gaze already sliding past us.
The grounds are buzzing, students everywhere, some filing into the main hall, others loitering in clusters.
Our car pulls away, and for a moment the crowd stills. Every eye turns to us.
Then the whispering begins. Fingers point, not only at us, but back down the private road that leads to our dorms. My brow tightens.
Gossip is nothing new, the photograph of us already circling online proves that, but today they seem almost fevered with it.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Octavia snaps at a cluster of girls.
“Crazy bitch,” one mutters under her breath, practically begging for an early death.
Octavia moves, a single step forward, but I catch her wrist before she can scalp the girl on the spot.
This is our rhythm, I hold her back, because Octavia and patience have never belonged in the same sentence. She loses her temper in an instant, forever courting trouble.
“Let’s go,” I hiss, tugging her along before the situation unravels, too early in the day, and far too early in the term.
We thread down the long corridor, doors lined on either side, then climb the stairs to the main hall. Half the seats are already taken, rows fill fast.
We slide into the front left, as places are assigned by dorm. Piper sits there, head bent over a book.
I slip in beside her and set my bag at my feet. Octavia drops into the chair on my other side. I lift my cup to my lips andlet my eyes sweep the room. The whispering has not stopped, if anything, it has grown louder.
Soon the headmistress steps onto the stage. She taps the microphone, and the crackle pulls the room to order.
