Page 5 of Kiss the Villain

I listened to Dad blame himself, his genes, and that person who should not be named. I heard Mom cry and beg him to stop.

I heard the mess.

The desperation.

The impression that their perfect little family was shattered.

And I decided I wouldn’t be like Kill.

I wouldn’t flaunt my demons or publicize my emptiness. I wouldn’t even let them figure out something is wrong or, worse, get so concerned that they take me to a doctor and have me diagnosed like they did with that idiot brother of mine.

I decided to be their unblemished boy. The picture-perfect son they actually never had and never will.

A spotless, unparalleled emulation of what I imagine a younger version of my dad would’ve been like.

Because that’s who I would’ve turned out like if I hadn’t been born me.

After a quick glance at my surroundings and making sure no one is paying attention, I walk to the room Yulian went into. My fingers are steady as I turn the doorknob, do a quick once-over to make sure no one is around, and then go inside. With a small smile, I flatten my back against the door and lock it.

That was so easy, I’m slightly offended, but that doesn’t stop my blood from roaring in my veins, a thunderous surge that resurrects me.

I’ve always loved the hunt, the way the creatures scurry in the shadows, the thrill of the unknown creeping in with every breath.

My heart booms and my demons claw at their chains, their rage spilling from the depths of the void, their bloodlust painting the room in my mind red.

My favorite color.

Yulian’s room of choice is dim, the air thick with a stale, artificial chill. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, casting shadows that stretch into the corners, making the space feel smaller than it is.

As I move closer, I catch a glimpse of a desk and shelves filled with books and knickknacks. But the only real thing that stands out is the black leather sofa in the center of the room, on top of which Yulian is sprawled. The sorry fuck probably couldn’t make it to a room with a bed, too drugged out of his goddamn mind.

A mask still covering his face, he’s dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. My eyes flit to his pulse point—the first thing I notice about people.

It’s beating steadily, the point throbbing against the skin in a hypnotizing view. It’s silent, but I can hear the deep, rhythmic pulsating.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

And I want to cut it off.

To slice my knife through it and watch as it grows quiet.

Motionless.

Nonexistent.

I flick my thumb at the edge of my upper lip but quickly drop my hand before I can bite the skin and draw my own blood.

It’s been a while since I got rid of that habit and I certainly won’t let it rush back in now that I’m in full control of my being.

As much as I want to kill Yulian, I won’t.

The one rule I have for myself is no killing.

It’s not out of any moral code I mentally don’t possess. In fact, I believe it’d do the human race good to get rid of the stupid wastes of space that keep diluting the average IQ.

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