Page 118 of Kiss the Villain

And yet I can’t look away, even as the ache in my chest deepens.

I reach out and trace my knuckles over his face—the curve of his jaw, the slope of his cheek, the pout of his pillowy lips. My fingers pause at the tiny freckles dotting his straight nose. Up close, they look like stardust, otherworldly.

The desire building inside me feels suffocating, a weight lodged in my throat, because I know I shouldn’t touch him.

Want him.

Feel this…obsessedwith him.

But he nuzzles into my hand, and it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots through me. My heart pounds so loudly, I hear it in my ears as I yank my arm away.

What the fuck wasthatabout?

I shift and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at him. But it’s harder than I thought.

A literal struggle.

The urge to fuck him again, to do something,anything, to relieve this mounting aggression is unbearable.

Maybe I should go for a swim?—

My thoughts scatter when a warm body presses against my side, his forehead nuzzling the crook of my neck.

He throws an arm over my chest, right where the snake’s fangs are inked. I don’t like that—illogical, I know—and I clutch his wrist, absently rubbing the faint rope marks, then slide his arm up to rest near my shoulder.

His soft breaths land like a curse against my throat.

I close my eyes, letting the pull of sleep take over. But just as I’m drifting, I realize his wrist is still in my hand.

For some reason, I don’t let go.

“Have you forgotten me?”

Those words dragged me out of a nightmare.

Herwords.

Hershriek as she shot Gareth in the face.

I can still feel the warmth of his blood on my skin—my face, my chest, everywhere.

I swam until my muscles screamed, but I can still feel the fucking blood.

It’s around six in the morning when I step back into the apartment. I head straight to the safe hidden behind an obscure French artist’s painting and toss in the knife and Taser I picked up earlier.

They join the others I’ve confiscated before. He keeps finding new ones, so it’s not making much of a difference, but I’m trying to stop him from rushing headfirst into violence every time something doesn’t go his way.

In some ways, he’s grounded and shows impressive self-control, but when he indulges his impulses, they’re destructive.

I need to train him to manage those instincts before he lands himself in a situation he can’t get out of.

Not that I shouldcarewhat happens to him.

I slam the safe shut and return the painting to its rightful place.

When I step into the bedroom, I expect to see him asleep. He’s a deep sleeper and barely moves, even when I’m up pacing or leaving early in the morning. He always looks peaceful, his Adonis-like face completely at ease.

I suppose that’s what it’s like to have no empathy—sleeping like an actual baby.

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