Page 199 of Kiss the Villain

It’s not her fault she gave birth to two monsters.

But that leaves me with Dad.

And Grandpa, who hasn’t left my side since I got here.

Dad—Asher Carson—is basically a younger version of Grandpa. Jet-black hair slicked back. A strong jawline. Deep-green eyes. The only thing I inherited from him.

He’s calm and collected. Not emotional like Mom. The only time I’ve seen him lose his cool was when Mom was in the hospital and we thought she had cancer. It turned out to be benign, but for those few days, he was aimless. Distraught.

I remember watching him and thinking,This type of love is dangerous.

Because the strongest man I know would crumble if he lost her.

And I remember thinking,I’m glad this kind of love will never find me.

But, boy, was I fucking mistaken.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened now?” Dad asks, his voice soft, though tension cuts through the undertone like a blade.

“Leave him be,” Grandpa replies, his tone firm but measured.

Grandpa’s frown is less pronounced than Dad’s, his upright posture defying his age. Wisps of white hair brush against his forehead, settling into the deep lines etched on his face. Those lines, carved by time and experience, lend him an air of quiet authority, even when his expression softens.

He doesn’t need to shield me from Dad. Heshouldn’thave to.

I needed to do this a long time ago.

“Dad, I’m trying to have a conversation with my son,” my father snaps, his frustration spilling over. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of it.”

“It’s my grandson, so I’m not staying out. You leave.”

“Can you not fight?” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was kidnapped and tortured, Dad. That’s what happened.”

The room falls into a weighted silence. Both of them stiffen, their reactions like opposite sides of the same coin.

Dad inches closer to the bed, his face caught between fear and fury. “Who was it? Is this because of the mafia connections?”

“No.”

“Then who? Who hurt you like this, Gaz?”

“Oh, this?” I gesture at the bandage on my forehead, then lift my arm. “I did these myself.”

Grandpa closes his eyes, his expression twisting in quiet pain.

I brace myself.

Stop breathing.

Wait for the disappointment to surface on Dad’s face.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, his expression is unreadable, and I hate that more.

“Why?” he asks, his voice soft but sharp enough to cut me deep.

The word rips through the tendons holding my sanity together.

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