Page 42 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
When the final class of the day ends, I make my way back to the dormitory.
It’s Friday, and tonight is the first football match of the season—St. Monarche´ against Velmark Academy, of all schools.
How that will play out, I cannot begin to imagine, given Arlo now captains our side and only recently wore Velmark’s colours.
I couldn’t care less about football, but as one of the Thirteenth Circle, I’m expected to make an appearance. We have our own benches reserved, after all.
Inside the dormitory building, I head for the lift, where Piper is already waiting. She notices me and offers the faintest of smiles.
“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes darting away almost immediately.
“Hello.” I return the smile.
“Piper—” I begin.
She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I only wanted to know if you’re all right. You seem more withdrawn than ever.”
Her gaze flickers back to mine. “You’re imagining things, Ophelia. Everything is fine.”
The lift doors open. We step inside. Neither of us speaks again. She doesn’t wish to, and I won’t force her.
Still, the familiar pang rises in me, the same one I feel whenever I see Adelaide. Something between us is fractured. Something happened to tear us apart, to turn us from inseparable girls who once shared everything into… this.
Whatever this is.
The lift halts on our floor. We walk down the corridor together, parting at our doors without so much as a goodbye.
I drop my bag by the door and slip off my boots. In the bedroom, I peel out of my clothes until I’m left in nothing but a blush pink silk bra with matching briefs.
My gaze lifts instinctively to the window, only to collide with eyes the colour of midnight blue.
Arlo.
He stands at his own window opposite mine, watching me without pretence. His stare is unyielding, and even across the distance I feel the weight of it.
Heat coils low in my body, my nipples tighten, my thighs press together of their own accord.
It doesn’t escape him as his jaw tightens and his hands flex at his sides.
I spin away and head for the closet. I pull on black leggings, a soft shirt on top.
Back in the kitchen, I draw my insulin and prepare dinner. Music hums from the speaker, filling the quiet while I chop, stir, and plate.
By the time I’ve finished eating, it’s nearly time to leave. The walk will take twenty minutes.
I lace my trainers, shrug into a coat, slip my key card into my pocket, and step outside.
The corridor is quiet. That familiar pang returns, the memory of when we would knock on each other’s doors and walk down together to the matches, laughing, simply ourselves.
But times have changed.
I leave the dorm alone and set out for the football pitch. AirPods in, my favourite album playing, I let my thoughts drift and almost wish the walk were longer.
At the stands, I head straight for the Thirteenth Circle’s reserved seats and greet my sister with a quick hug.
Adelaide pointedly avoids me, her curls swept into a careless bun with loose strands falling about her face. She wears leggings, a plain shirt, and her leather jacket thrown over the top, speaking in low tones with Lucian Ward, second in command to the Circle’s leader.
