Page 8 of Kiss the Villain

When I open my eyes, he’s close.

Closer than anyone should get to my person after attacking me. Because I’m staring at his pulse point, and I want to bite and rip the flesh out like a rabid dog.

My jaw clenches and I shove the demons back where they came from and stare at him.

Not at his chest or the peculiar snake tattoo, but at the mask with golden serpents that should only be Yulian’s.

Was this a trap?

“Now, how about we pick up where we left off?” His breath, a mixture of whiskey and mint, penetrates my senses through my mask’s holes. It takes all my control not to slam my head into his so he’ll back the fuck off.

The silencer attached to his gun lifts my mask and lingers at my mouth, the cold metal brushing against my warm skin for a beat too long. It presses into my lips, the chill sinking into my flesh, but it fails to trigger any emotions.

I don’t possess the notion of fear. That switch just doesn’t exist in my brain. Not even when being held at gunpoint.

Anger, however? Yeah, that one I have in spades, and it’s mounting the more this motherfucker holds a gun to my face.

I remain still, though, breathing as steadily as possible.

Any sudden movement could lead to my death, and due to the silencer, no one at this party would be the wiser. This fucking waste of space proved that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and I don’t want to try my luck.

The silencer leaves my lips and he flips off my mask, letting it clatter on the floor.

Here we go again.

My least favorite shit.

Unmasking.

Showing my beautifully proportionate face. Shiny blond hair and ‘enchanting green eyes,’ as many describe them—though they look brown right now.

I’ve often been called the personification of a Prince Charming with my classically handsome face, dimpled smile, and welcoming appearance.

They’re all weapons in my arsenal.

The man pauses as he watches me. They all do. Men and women alike. I’m justthatirresistible.

This one in particular doesn’t look like he wants to fuck me, though. His gray eyes, the color of rainstorms and hurricanes, remain impassive as he flips my face back and forth with the gun.

As if he’s looking for something. What, I don’t know, and I’m not interested to find out.

Because I don’t like those eyes.

Call it hate at first sight.

Why?

They lack color, and it’s not only because of the cloudy gray. They truly seem dead, and he’s not—dead, I mean. He should have some respect for the dead and stop those eyes from being so empty. That way, I can fantasize about turning them lifeless.

His gun lifts my chin and I struggle to continue staring at him and not the ceiling. “Such a pretty face for a grotesque personality.”

Grotesque.

Did this motherfucking piece of shit call me grotesque?

Me? The best-looking person I know?

Maybe I need to rip his pulse the fuck off, after all.

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