Page 141 of Kiss the Villain

“Should I keep her?”

His expression brightens briefly before he schools it into indifference. “I don’t care.”

“What should I name her, Mr. I Don’t Care?”

“Moka,” he says without hesitation.

“Mocha?”

“The European spelling, with aKinstead of ach. She’s black with brown eyes. It fits.”

“Moka it is, then.”

I sit on the edge of the sofa beside him, sliding my hand over his chest as I lean in. “You did well tonight.”

“It’s not that serious,” he mumbles, attempting to sound casual, but his chest hums beneath my touch. He does love my approval. It turnshiminto a docile kitten.

He also really hates it when I scold him.

Which is why I’m using those two edges to tame him better, balance his unhinged personality so he doesn’t commit any impulsive actions.

This wasn’t in the cards when I first got to know him, but now it’s my mission. Someone like Gareth needs a more emotionally mature and strict person by his side to keep him in check, otherwise he’d eventually spiral.

He has this calm expression when he looks at me now, almost content.

“Does that mean no choking on my cock tonight?”

“Nah, missed your chance.” His dimples flash, and I can’t stop myself from grinning as I settle in beside him.

“There’s not enough room. Just go sit on the chair,” he grumbles as I move closer.

“Scoot over.”

I push him slightly, sliding one arm beneath his nape and the other over his chest, throwing a leg over his in a sideways hug. He’s so warm, and his scent—bergamot and something uniquely Gareth—wraps around me like a drug.

He releases a low grumble, tapping my arm. “It’s hot.”

“You’re the one who’s hot.”

“Corny,” he mutters, coughing slightly to hide his smile.

“It still worked.” I study the sharp line of his jaw and the freckles scattered over his nose. My fingers find the hem of his shirt sleeve, lifting it just enough to trace the inked arrows on his arm.

“What do these mean? Is it about your love for archery?”

“Yes and no.” He stares at the ceiling, his expression clouding. “Do you know what crossed arrows symbolize?”

“Balance between opposing forces? Maybe it’s about how you balance your public and private personas?”

“Not quite. My personality bleeds into every part of my life anyway.” He lets out a small exhale. “The arrows remind me that no matter how tightly I try to hold everything in place, chaos is always lurking beneath the surface. It’s not about weakness or lack of discipline. It’s the tension and the constant pull between staying in control and being drawn to the uncontrollable. Think of it as a paradox, a memento that I’m never as in charge as I want to be.”

I stroke the pad of my thumb along the arrowhead, absorbing his words. I didn’t think it had that deep of a meaning. “Am I one of the things you can’t control but can’t help being drawn to?”

“Stop being so full of yourself,” he scoffs, though his gaze softens. He flicks a glance at my chest. “What about your tattoo?”

“It’s about rebirth.”

“Rebirth? Not danger?”

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