Page 136 of Kiss the Villain

Sure enough, when I storm out, he’s right there, standing under the pouring rain, pulling an arrow against the string. His muscles flex beneath his soaked T-shirt, and the faint outline of the crossed arrows tattooed on the underside of his arm peeks through.

He’s drenched, water clinging to his hair and cascading in rivulets down his pale neck.

Like a piece of art, his body aligns in perfect, almost geometric precision as he pulls back and releases the arrow.

Bullseye.

I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

He doesn’t stop. Another arrow, then another, each one hitting its mark with mechanical consistency. Rain streams down his face, dripping off his jaw, but he’s completely unbothered.

I, however, am not.

Because he’ll get fucking sick.

I stride toward him, rain soaking me to the bone. As I approach, he turns in my direction, an arrow nocked and aimed at me. His eyes narrow as recognition sets in.

There’s something turbulent in his gaze, the color not quite right. And what does it say about me that I can read his mood in a single glance?

Too fucking far gone, probably.

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot me like he did during the initiation.

But instead, he lowers the bow and focuses back on the target. “Picked up archery just to stalk me?”

“To see you.”

He releases the arrow, but it lands slightly off-center. A frustrated breath tears out of him, and he lets the bow fall to his side as he faces me. “What if I don’t want to see you?”

“I’d need a proper reason for that. You’ve got to communicate, even when you’re mad. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know what’s wrong?”

“Forget it.” He pulls another arrow, rolling the tip between his fingers.

“Not if you’re still mad about it.”

He tilts his head, frowning a bit. “Why does that matter to you? Whether I’m mad or not.”

“Why wouldn’t it? I want to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but I want to be there anyway. Like right now.” I grab his arm, the chill of his skin jolting against my hand. “You’re not taking care of yourself by standing in the rain shooting arrows. Your body is mine, so you don’t get to be reckless with it. Are we clear?”

He swallows hard, his turbulent eyes wavering and flickering. They’re so lost and disturbed it makes me want to kill whoever put that look there—even if it’s me.

His lips are bluish, and I notice a small cut at the edge of his archery glove. I gently remove it, inspecting the wound. It’s shallow, but the sight of it irritates me anyway.

“How did this happen?”

He shrugs, silent, as if his mind is miles away.

The fact that he isn’t throwing out a snarky comment is more worrying than the wound.

After wrapping a tissue around his hand, I tug him toward the locker room. “We’re going home.”

He’s got spare sets of sweatpants and shirts in his locker, and I grab the loosest fit for myself. As we change, I keep stealing glances at him.

He’s acting…odd.

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