Page 6 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Our rivals, our competitors, our sworn enemies, are sent to Velmark. That is how it has always been.
So there is no circumstance in which I would cross that boundary. To have gone there, to a party last night, doesn’t make sense.
Not only because stepping onto their grounds would mean death if we were caught,but because it is highly improbable. Saint Monarché stands on Elaris Isle, a private island in the North Sea, tucked between the coasts of Scotland and Norway.
To leave or arrive you need a helicopter or a ferry across waters so tightly controlled no one slips through unnoticed.
Velmark Academy, by contrast, lies on the mainland, within British territory.
So how could I have been there last night, when I woke here this morning?
And besides, this isn’t even what I remember. The glimpses I have from last night and what my sister is saying are entirely off from each other, completely opposed.
“Yes, you have. We were there last night,” she repeats, blind to the turmoil in my head.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head, repeating the word because once doesn’t feel enough to hold back the unease rising in me. I still can’t make sense of it, so the denial comes more insistent. “No. Last night we went into the village, here, on Elaris Isle. We slipped out together. We caught Professor Davis in that dreadful little bar, drunk and being pawed over by a lap dancer…”
Octavia breaks in, the colour draining from her face.
“Ophelia,” she says slowly, as though even her own voice might splinter. “That was about two years ago. Professor Davis hasn’t even taught here in over a year.”
Her words echo through me.
Two years?
What does she mean, two years?
That night was yesterday, was it not?
Two years.
Two yearsgone.
She is telling me I have lived them, yet I recall nothing. Not a single moment.
Pain tightens behind my eyes. I press a hand to my brow, and when I draw it back my palm is streaked with fresh blood.
I reach for the wipes on the table and dab at the cut automatically, my mind still reeling, unwilling to accept what I’ve just heard.
“Then what happened to me yesterday?” I ask at last, the question that has clawed at me since the moment I opened my eyes.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. But I can see it in her face, she knows more than she is willing to admit. Not necessarily about me, but about something. She must. Or it could just be my own desperation, grasping at answers where there are none. Because no one loses two years of their life without reason.
Octavia rises from the sofa and studies me once more before her expression softens. She relents with a sigh. “I’ll tell you everything I know, I promise you, though it may not amount to much. But first, let’s have your forehead stitched. I can’t bear to look at it any longer, not like this.”
I nod, too numb to argue, and follow her out, pausing only to take my access card, it’s needed for nearly everything here, including my own room. Octavia closes the door behind us, and together we step into the corridor.
This building holds only five private suites, all of them on the upper floor—mine, my sister’s, and three more belonging to the girls I count as my closest friends. Each door bears agold plated number, glinting softly under the sconces along the corridor.
We make our way to the lift, and Octavia presses the call button. A chime sounds before the doors slide open. We step inside, and she selects the ground floor.
The lift carries us down into a shared lounge, furnished with low cushions scattered across thick rugs, a flat screen mounted above the hearth, and a small bar stocked with drinks and neatly arranged snacks, discreetly set beside the sleek kitchenette.
The lounge feels spacious, even comfortable in its way, but it remains quiet most of the time. We rarely use it, preferring the privacy of our own rooms when we meet.
The glass doors part as we approach, and the cool air greets us the moment we step outside. The sky hangs low and grey, the kind of overcast that could only ever be England. Not raining yet, though it threatens.
We step onto the stone path, bordered by the familiar sweep of the woods. To the left, another residence mirrors ours in design.
