Page 31 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
“As you know, the Ferrum Syndicate has joined us, as part of a… collaboration.” He smirks. “Be good hosts. Extend them every courtesy.”
I follow his gaze and spot them immediately, four men in black masks. Only their eyes are visible, the rest of the surface marked with stark insignia that stretch across the face. A wolf. A marionette. A raven.
And then the diamond. His stare finds mine through the firelight, sharp and unrelenting, and I know exactly who he is.
I’d pieced together what I could about the Ferrum Syndicate, every rumour worth hearing, every scrap Octavia was willing to share. Officially, our paths have never crossed. They shouldn’t have.
And yet I’m certain Arlo knows me.
The heir of the Vass family. Old money. French. Their fortune comes from a mining empire, gold, diamonds, stones beyond price. Outwardly, it’s all luxury and refinement, behind the scenes, their reach runs far wider. They’ve been rivals of ours for as long as I can remember. It’s why he was at Velmark Academy… or used to be.
Cruel laughter snaps me out of my thoughts. Lucian looks down at the boy on the ground.
“Start running,” he orders, in a cold voice. “And beg they show you mercy.”
The one in the raven mask lets out a low, amused laugh. “If you think that, you don’t know who we are. We’ll give him a head start. We’ve the whole night ahead of us, after all.”
The boy bolts. People around me laugh.
I almost pity him. Almost. He tried to play the Circle, and anyone who does that ought to know better. Cross us, and we cross you.
From the look of it, this was his parents’ doing, they wanted something from one of our families and sent him to do the dirty work. Of course he was caught, now he’ll pay the price.
We’re all puppets to our families, and the Thirteenth Circle is conveniently dressed up as discipline. It isn’t really about keeping order at St. Monarché. It’s far messier than that, a useful veneer for the errands and cruelties our parents prefer not to be seen doing themselves.
The music resumes, as though nothing happened. People drift back to their drinks and cigarettes and tangled embraces. I can still feel eyes on me. The Ferrum Syndicate hasn’t moved, they’re confident they’ll catch the boy regardless.
My gaze finds Arlo, the diamond motif on his mask gleams in the firelight, and my chest tightens with a feeling I’d rather not name.
He sits sprawled in a chair. A girl perches on his lap. I recognise her vaguely, Zara, from a wealthy London family. She has one hand on his cheek, the other pressed to his chest, arching towards him as she whispers in his ear.
He doesn’t break eye contact with me. One hand holds a drink, the other rests, casual and idle, on the arm of the chair. He isn’t touching her at all.
Zara follows his gaze and lands on me, her mouth curving into a sneer. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. The sheer cliché of it. Somehow the blame always falls on the woman, never the man. Utter nonsense, if you ask me.
The next second she turns back to him and crushes her mouth to his. His eyes stay on mine, as if waiting to see how I’ll react.
The pang in my chest deepens, and for a moment I wonder if the concussion is making me delusional. Because there’s no reason for me to react like this to a stranger.
On the outside, I school my features into indifference. I will never give him the satisfaction of breaking me.
I shrug him off, what game he thinks he’s playing, I can’t begin to guess, and I turn away. As I do, I hear a commotion behind me, but I don’t look.
I keep walking deeper into the woods, refusing to glance back. Why on earth would I?
I’m already irritated with myself for reacting to him at all. Now I’m even more so. None of it makes sense. He clearly knows something, but it’s equally clear he will never offer me clarity.
All these tangled thoughts make me feel sick.
I don’t understand why it hurts so much. There’s no sense in it. He’s nothing to me, and I’m nothing to him.
Yet my chest twists as though I’ve been betrayed by someone who mattered, which is absurd. Because if we truly weresomething, wouldn’t he be at my side? Wouldn’t he prove that I meant more than this to him?
So perhaps I do know him. Perhaps there was a moment, once, where our paths crossed and I somehow earned his hatred. But beyond that, we are strangers. Entirely.
So why does my chest tighten so unbearably at the sight of him with another woman?
Chapter 11
