Page 29 of Kiss the Villain

I rip my gaze from the PowerPoint and face the class, then I slip a hand into my pocket as I meet that glare.

It’s a real effort not to let my lips fall into a smile.

An honest struggle.

Carson is sitting in the very last row, sliding his pen back and forth without looking at his notebook. He seems to have lost his grip on his usual calm façade, gradually disintegrating into my chaos.

See, he’s truly a mastermind at masking his true emotions. I’ve seen how he exudes a collected demeanor with friends, looking the ideal part of a harmless kitten when, in fact, he’s harboring a demon.

Hell, during that night I first saw him, he wore a poker face even after I shot him. And I thought he was putting up a front, but I’m starting to believe that’s just his default—looking so terribly disinterested at the whole world.

This week, however, in our second class together, he seems to have lost the ability to tuck away his obvious hatred.

It makes it hard not to dismiss the entire class and back him into a corner, trap him in the palms of my hands, or squash him beneath my feet.

Break him to pieces once and for all.

My eyes lock with his for a brief second, and I admit that green looks far better in his irises than the fake brown. His eyes are electric, a charged mixture of impulsive loathing and patient retribution, each flicker a promise of something darker.

It doesn’t fit with the rest of his poised appearance, though.

He’s tall and muscled, his frame draped in quiet luxury clothes that could easily pay for a student’s tuition. He has blond hair that falls in organized chaos on his forehead in a floppy hairstyle, a clean-shaven, sharp jawline, and high, chiseled cheekbones that lend him an almost otherworldly, medieval prince-like aura, as if he belongs to a world where power is absolute, and everyone around him is simply waiting for his command.

This particular prince, however, is broken. There’s no charm or goodness within him, at least none that’s not manufactured.

He seems so harmless and approachable, but then again, so were the most notorious serial killers.

Gareth Carson has the looks of a prince and the personality of a devil.

A man who’ll paint the world in bright colors for his victims and then splash it all in red.

Which is why he’s my red now. I’m the devil who’ll bring another devil to his fucking knees.

Literally.

Figuratively.

A rush of anticipation slithers down my spine, and I force myself to stop fantasizing in class about fucking up my student.

Everything happens in the correct time frame.

Pulling my eyes from his, I stand behind the desk, my gaze sweeping over the students. “In the upcoming weeks, we will engage in a mock trial. This exercise will help you understand the delicate balance of evidence, the weight of reasonable doubt, and the very real lives that will be affected by our decisions. And because I don’t mince any details, we will tackle a case that is as difficult as it is sensitive: a rape case.”

The weight of my words settles in the room like a whip.

Carson’s movements stop, and I expect him to break the pen like he did last week, but that doesn’t happen.

Hmm. I haven’t pushed him that far yet.

Continuing on…

“Now, on to the case.” I click on the remote button, showing a summary on the screen. “The accused is James Rutherford, a wealthy businessman, charged with the drugging and rape of a young woman named Rebecca Blake. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old woman who was found unconscious by a staff member in a hotel room after a night out with friends. The police believe she was drugged and sexually assaulted.”

Everyone is focused on the slides.

Everyone but Carson.

Because his entire creepy, intense attention is on me.

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