Page 72 of Kiss the Villain

“We’re not here to deny what happened to Rebecca—what we’re here to prove is that the sexual encounter between her and Mr. Rutherford was consensual. She went to that room willingly, she was an active participant, not a victim. She didn’t say ‘no,’ she didn’t resist, and that’s why this case hinges on one simple question: did the prosecution provide sufficient evidence to prove that what happened was anything other than a consensual encounter? We will show you that the answer is no. There is reasonable doubt, and we will prove that Mr. Rutherford is not guilty.”

I don’t pay attention to the rest of my team, who are celebrating in the corner. Or the members of the jury who are already in my pocket.

Instead, I let myself wear a smug smile as I turn to face Kayden.

How is that for perfect statement and delivery, dick?—

My smile falters the moment our gazes lock. His eyes are dark, several shades darker than gray, filled with a dangerous, threatening edge. His fingers tighten on the desk, and I think that if he were to touch me right now, he might strangle me to death or something.

What the fuck?

The threatening edge disappears as he stands to his full height and says in a monotone voice, “Too theatrical. Could be shorter. We’ll resume next week. Moving on to today’s lesson.”

Everyone shuffles back to their seat, and I do, too, but that expression is etched deep in my mind.

Kayden doesn’t acknowledge me for the rest of the class. No taunting smirks. No backhanded insults.

Nothing.

And all I can think about is that he looked like he wanted to kill me.

12

KAYDEN

Cold.

Somehow not cold enough.

Somehowtoocold to breathe properly.

The ice surrounding my body is biting, an assault that numbs every inch of my bare skin.

The sharp, merciless water clings to me, the ice cubes scraping against my legs like jagged stones.

My breaths rush out in shallow, controlled gasps, the cold seeping into my bones, sinking deeper with every passing second.

The icy grip on my muscles makes the black-and-white bathroom fade into an indistinct blur.

My hands tremble slightly, but I force them still as I bring the cigarette to my lips. The acrid taste of tobacco fills my lungs, a sharp contrast to the icy burn.

I quit smoking a long time ago, when I thought I had everything I ever wanted.

Until I didn’t.

Until the life I’d made for myself crumbled to fucking pieces.

I didn’t relapse then.

But I am now. After today.

After I was punched in the gut by the reality and the fucking reminder that I let myself get too close.

Toopersonal.

I’m not supposed toenjoythis.

Which is why I’m indulging in this punishment. My father’s favorite way to discipline me and my brother was throwing us in an ice bath—a room, actually—and not letting us leave until we were about to die of hypothermia. He had doctors on board to make sure we were pushed to our absolute physical limits.

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