Page 195 of Kiss the Villain

So I stop.

Fuck.

“Gareth, please give me that piece of glass,” I say in my softest tone.

“Why?”

“So you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I have to, so I can remove you.” His voice sounds rough in the near-dark silence, his eyes almost glowing.

And I feel as if I’ve been stabbed.

“You want to remove me?” I ask.

“Yeah. I want you gone once and for all, so let me go.”

I pull his hand with the glass and push it against my chest. “Then remove me. Don’t hurt yourself. Hurtme.”

He cocks his head to the side, slowly, manically. “Hurt you?”

“You said you’d rip my heart out. It’s all yours, so do with it as you please, baby.”

His hand doesn’t tremble, doesn’t lose its steadiness. I suspect that even if he were to take a life, which is a matter of when, not if, he’d be very methodical about it and not question it.

He wouldn’t think twice about it like he is now.

All of a sudden, Gareth rips my shirt down the middle with the glass, splashing his blood all over the fabric. He cuts my side, and I let him, watching how his eyes darken upon seeing my tattoos.

Then he stabs me over the lily tattoo. No, not stabs. He scratches it over and over again with the shard of glass, erasing it, completely removing it from my skin.

Because he now knows I got that tattoo for Cassandra. He must’ve seen it on her wrist in all those videos.

I rein in my grunt of pain, letting him do what he pleases. I don’t think I’d move even if he slit my throat open.

His shoulders shake and so does his hand. It’s full of blood now—his hand, my abdomen, my ripped shirt, and my pants.

It’s everywhere, our blood, messing up the carpet, and him.

And I need to bandage his hand.

He keeps losing blood and I’m unable to put an end to it.

It’s like he’s slipping from between my fingers with each drop of blood.

His movements come to a halt, his lips wobbling as he looks up at me with shiny eyes. “I can’t remove it.”

He lets the glass fall to the carpet and I immediately take off my shirt and wrap it around his hand, squeezing against the wound.

He’s dazed as I drag him with me to the bathroom, sit him on a padded bench, and retrieve a first aid kit.

He doesn’t move as I sit across from him and drench his fingers and palm with antiseptic. Thank God the wounds are not that deep, but he fucked up all his fingers, with multiple cuts on every digit.

“Why can’t I remove it?” he whispers in a detached tone as I dab his injuries with alcohol pads.

“Remove what?”

“Her soul from your blood.” He reaches out his free hand and squeezes my wound with trembling fingers. “I hurt you, but she still wouldn’t go away.”

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