Page 95 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
“Ophelia,” I warn, and she falls silent, a small smile ghosting her lips.
I open her door despite her protest. She huffs but climbs in. Before she can reach for the seatbelt, I pull it across her and click it into place. Our faces are inches apart, her breath warm with the faint sweetness of strawberries.
She bites her lip, that same nervous habit that drives me mad. Everything in me stills. I reach out, drag my thumb across her mouth, and pull it free from between her teeth.
“Don’t,” I murmur, my voice low and warning. “That’s mine to do.”
She exhales a soft breath, and I close the door, limping around to the driver’s side.
A moment later, the engine hums to life, and the silence between us is louder than the road beneath the tyres.
Chapter 32
Ophelia
When we arrive back at the chalet, it’s silent, as we’re the first ones to return. We step out into the crisp mountain air. My fingers ache from the cold by the time we push through the heavy oak doors.
Inside, warmth greets us instantly, a rush of firelight and the faint scent of cinnamon from whatever candle Adelaide must have lit this morning.
We shed our coats, boots, and gloves by the entryway, leaving behind a small puddle of melting snow.
We climb the stairs in silence to our room, and the thought catches in my mind.
Our room.
It shouldn’t sound like that. The words feel intimate and dangerous.
It isn’t supposed to be ours, and yet it is. I’ve had plenty of chances to tell him to sleep elsewhere, to insist, but I didn’t.
Because the truth is, I didn’t want him to.
The admission burns somewhere deep in my chest.
We change quietly. I take longer, pretending to fuss with my hair or the zip of my jumper, anything to delay facing him again.
By the time I come downstairs, he’s already in the living room, lounging on the sofa, his leg propped exactly where it shouldn’t be, no ice or elevation.
“You need to ice your ankle,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t even look up, eyes fixed on the fire he’s just lit. The flames cast his face in amber light, and for a second, I forget to be annoyed.
I sigh, head to the kitchen, and return with a towel wrapped pack of ice. He glares at it as though I’ve personally insulted him.
“Put your leg up,” I tell him.
“Ophelia, it’s—”
“Up,” I repeat. Before he can argue further I set the ice over the swelling.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse, but he lets me.
I fetch a blanket and sit beside him on the sofa, pulling it over my legs. A moment later, he reaches for the edge and tugs it over himself as well.
We end up sharing it, our shoulders almost touching.
The fire crackles softly. The television hums in the background, and I only realise what’s playing when I hear the opening music.
