Page 184 of Kiss the Villain

And calling himdarling.

And laughing.

And kissing.

And hugging.

And dancing.

Even as my blood drips on the ground at my feet, he’s still there.

Inside me.

In my head.

In that beating heart that wouldn’t purge him out.

And I can’t get him away from her, because she’s inside him and willalwaysbe inside him, and I can’t do anything about it.

Not like I did with Mr. Laurent or Harper.

I have this tendency to get too attached to people I like, too often, and in different ways. It’s not romantic or anything, I don’t think.

It’s my brain’s way of prioritizing people in my life.

Like Dad. He’s my role model, the person I’ve always wanted to be like. I studied law because he’s a lawyer. I dress like him and even adapted his manner of speech. He truly fascinates me. He’s the normal version of me that I strive to be, so when he started dividing his attention between me and Kill, I wanted to remove the hazard—Killian. But I didn’t, because that would make Dad sad.

Besides, at the time, I had Kayden, who muted my destructive thoughts and even reminded me that he’s both my and Killian’s dad, so sharing wouldn’t kill me.

That was okay, I guess. Maybe because I’m older now, so I have more self-control. Besides, Kill is also one of my things, so it’s not like I would hurt him consciously.

Mr. Laurent was also one of those people I thought belonged to me. I was attached to him and I liked him. He was smart and well-read and had a beautiful French accent. I liked listening to him talk and being in his company.

Not in a romantic way, but like with Dad, I respected him. A lot.

But when I found out he’d used me, I wanted to get rid of what took away what was mine—him. As Aunt Rai hugged me after I saw his dead eyes, I pushed her away. She thought I was in shock and wanted Mom, but, truly, I was a little mad that she was the one who got rid of what was mine.

I wanted to do it myself. Carve his eyes out with my own hands.

Those thoughts were ten times worse with Harper.

She was my one serious girlfriend. We started going out at fifteen. She had a crush on me for a while, so I agreed to go out with her because of her eyes.

I don’t know how to describe it, but she had these very sad eyes, almost lifeless, and I wanted to know the story behind them. Harper was super popular in our high school, but no one seemed to see beyond that image.

She had a façade like me and I saw through it. I saw how she flinched around men who had loud voices. How she secretly went to the bathroom to throw up her lunch.

But for some reason, she always said she liked my voice, because it was mellow and made her feel safe.

Me? Making someone feel safe?

Me, who pictured shooting people with my arrows whenever I went hunting with Dad?

She was clearly a bad judge of character, poor Harper. But I liked her personality, mostly because it was so different from mine. Where I feigned happiness, she was always smiling and laughing, making everyone feel safe and welcome. She volunteered at charities and stood up to bullies and was genuinely a good person.

Too good, actually. I suspected she cried herself to sleep, and she did.

Because Harper’s life that looked perfect on paper was, in reality, a living hell.

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