Page 215 of Kiss the Villain

The cat leaps onto the brown leather sofa and lets out another haughty meow, her tone dripping with attitude. Just like a certain someone.

I should be working, replying to correspondence, and smoothing a few connections. But instead, I open a video file.

The video Declan sent to the Osborns so they’d have me kicked out. He probably figured that if he sent it to my brother, he would sweep it under the rug just to keep me around.

But in that case, Grant would’ve found Gareth and killed him. Just like our father did to his college sweetheart.

So, in a twisted way, I owe Declan.

The clip is short, grainy, and soundless. Gareth isn’t visible, tucked in the seat as I climbed on top of him. That was after he called his car, Medusa, his “baby” again. Irrational jealousy over a car—how fucking absurd.

The memory is vivid, sharper than the video. The surprised grunt he let out when I shoved him back. The mischievous sparkle in his green eyes. Those damn dimples creasing his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around me.

“Am I going to be punished, Professor?” His voice had been a low, rough murmur, heavy with arousal.

I see it in the clip—our bodies pressed together, his mouth beneath mine. Even soundless, I can almost hear him, feel the rasp of his breaths against my skin. “K-Kayde…more…fuck yes…”

I can still feel the way his muscles softened beneath my hands, his heartbeat thundering against mine, and his ears turning red. The small, needy noises he only ever makes for me.

The ghost of his scent fills my senses, and I’m instantly hard, the ache sharp and all-consuming. I can feel him even now—the heat, the tension, the way his hips aligned perfectly with mine.

I’m about to reach into my pants and relieve the ache when Moka jumps from the sofa to the table, scattering chess pieces across the table.

Voices filter in from downstairs, dragging me back to reality.

I slam the laptop shut to stand and open the door for Moka, who’s meowing loudly. Tension coils in my body as I stride to the top of the stairs.

Then I freeze.

At first, I think he’s a figment of my imagination, just like all the other times.

When I sleep, I picture him wiping me down and stroking my hand.

But he never speaks to me. No matter what I say, he just stares at me with those empty eyes.

Eyes I turned dead.

But then I blink, and he’s gone.

And I go back to sleep, but he’s not there again.

But this time, he’s real.

I’m blinking and he’s still standing there, holding Moka in his hands as she headbutts his chin.

My lungs seize, the air thick and heavy as though it’s been sucked from the room. The sight of him is a punch to the gut, a heavy, raw wave crashing into me.

His golden hair is longer now, falling messily over his forehead. His sharp jaw and cheekbones seem even more pronounced, but the rest of him…

He’s hollowed out.

My little monster has lost weight, rapidly, his muscles no longer stretching along his arms like they used to. His white T-shirt clings to his body, his jeans hanging low on his hips, hinting at the frame I used to worship daily.

But now, he seems distant. Untouchable, even.

The Band-Aid on his forehead is a stark, glaring reminder of what I’ve done and why I shouldn’t touch him.

Even though I can’t see them, I know jagged stitches are hidden beneath his jacket sleeve. I see them every time I close my eyes. The sight of him back then, his own blood that he didn’t think twice about spilling, haunts me.

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