Kiss The Villain: Chapter 16

The low hum of conversation scatters around me as I stare at my phone.

I can’t help the small smile that tugs on my lips, and one of my friends—the fake ones—says to stop scrolling.

I’m not, but they can’t tell with the privacy screen.

They want to do some late afternoon group study in a local coffee shop, and I usually join them just to incapacitate them and make them feel like they can never be at my level. Without even saying anything. They still like my company, though, which isn’t a surprise—I’m the most interesting person I know.

Well, I don’t show all my interesting parts, but they’re still mesmerized by the image I project, which is a superpower in and of itself.

I reply to a few texts from Rachel—yes, the one who’s Kayden’s mom. I went to say goodbye at the airport two days ago and got her number before she left despite Kayden’s attempts to stop it. So Jina demanded to have my number, too, which I gladly gave.

We’ve been texting regularly in this group chat I made for the three of us. Mostly Rachel texts back, though. But Jina reads. Everything. Unless I talk about archery or shooting targets, then it’s Jina who’s chatty, while Rachel just sends GIFs that imply she’s bored.

I prefer Kayden’s moms over him, but I also get why he doesn’t like that I’ve been trying to milk them for information ever since that dinner a week ago.

I mean, I am, but he didn’t need to figure it out so fast.

Or try to throw in hidden meanings while his parents were there.

Anyway, he went back to campus a couple of days ago, and he’s been texting me since his moms left. Texts that I ignored but am reading through right now.

The last two texts pissed me off, but the rest are acceptable.

Good to see him on the edge.

Dreaming of me, wanting me, going crazy about me, and not having me. He’s no different from all the other professors who’ve wanted to fuck me.

He should get in line.

My friends are talking about all sorts of stuff when my phone lights up with a text.

I’m grinning wide. I love being his source of pride—something Killian definitely isn’t.

Something I wouldn’t be if he knew Kill and I have more in common than he thinks.

Because Dad said Kill was defective at a young age and my brother heard it.

He came to talk to me about it. I was eleven at the time.

“Gary,” he calls me by the nickname I hate most, just because he knows I hate it.

I’m in the garden practicing archery when he strolls over and flops onto the grass in front of me.

“What?” I snap, annoyed at the interruption.

“Why am I defective and you’re not?”

“Because you’re stupid,” I say, drawing my bowstring and releasing an arrow that lands just shy of the bullseye.

“I think Dad hates me.” His dead eyes fix on mine—those empty, hollow eyes he’s always had. I noticed them long before Dad did, because I saw them in myself.

“Because he called you defective?”

“Yeah. He said he and Mom should’ve only had you. Mom scolded him, but she gave me a weird look when I showed them the dead mice.”

“Then maybe don’t do that.”

“But I wanted to see inside them.”

“You shouldn’t let Mom or Dad see inside you.” I notch another arrow and fire. Bullseye.

“Why can’t they just be proud of me?”

“Because you were born different, and they can’t handle that kind of different.”

“How different?”

I pull another arrow and aim it at his throat, and he doesn’t even flinch. ‘How do you feel when I do this?’

“I want to hurt you for wanting to hurt me.”

‘That’s different. Most people would feel scared, frozen, or nervous—that’s how their brain works.” I raise the arrow and fire again. Bullseye. “If you want Mom to stop looking at you like that, watch how your friends act and mimic them as best you can. It’ll get easier with time.”

He jumps up, a grin breaking through his usual blank expression. “Will Dad stop hating me, too?”

“Maybe stay away from Dad. I don’t think he’s ever going to accept you.”

So I might have unknowingly contributed to the rift between Dad and Kill. I think Kill wanted to try when we were young, but it faded out.

Dad tried more than Kill, though. He came up with all sorts of activities for all three of us, including hunting, but I believe Kill didn’t really like seeing Dad and me getting along, so he stopped coming.

They grew further and further apart the older Kill got, and it turned into a cold war of sorts.

One I wasn’t changing, because I don’t like the idea of Kill getting close to Dad. I barely tolerate his attachment to Mom, but with Dad or even Grandpa, that’s a red line. He has the rest of the world to charm.

I assure Dad that Killian’s doing well, and he insists that we should come visit.

In the end, I’ll drop by alone since Kill wouldn’t want to go anyway.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and focus on something one of the guys is talking about, jumping in with the most basic replies.

We step into a local coffee shop, the familiar hum of conversation and the sharp scent of espresso filling the air. It’s one of those quiet places, tucked away from the town center’s chaos, with mismatched furniture and a cozy, lived-in feel.

The soft clink of spoons and the low murmur of the barista at the counter blend into the background as my eyes lock onto none other than my professor.

Kayden’s sitting at a small corner table, effortlessly commanding attention. His dark hair is styled just enough to look casual but still sharp, framing his defined cheekbones, defined jawline, and his slight stubble adds to the maturity of his look.

His pressed white shirt strains against his muscles, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and is paired with well-tailored black pants. His gaze is intense and piercing, with natural magnetism as he directs it at a woman.

Because, yes, there’s a fucking woman sitting across from him.

And he’s talking to her.

She’s older, maybe in her mid-thirties, with long auburn hair that cascades over her shoulders and her tight black dress. She has a sultry look and a flirtatious smile that’s all too confident for my fucking taste. Her eyes linger on him, warm and inviting, as she leans in to say something, her laugh low and rich.

“Oh my God, is that Prof Lockwood?” one of the girls squeals as we sit at the biggest table in the middle of the room.

I choose a seat that’s right across from him.

But he doesn’t notice me.

Not when his entire attention is on the woman with red lipstick.

“Is he on a date?” Myers asks with glee.

“Get it, Prof. She’s hot as fuck,” another one of the dumb-ass guys says.

“I think she’s a prof at the business school.”

“I’m gonna cry.” Morgan pouts beside me. “If I can’t have him, no woman should.”

“They could be doing one of those things professors do,” Zara says, stroking her arm.

“Yeah, right. She looks ready to unzip his pants and give us a show. Why is life so unfair?”

“He’s never shown interest in you or anyone in class, actually. I think he prefers people his age. Don’t take it personally, Morgan.”

“It still sucks.”

They chatter and buzz and talk and talk and talk, and I’m on the verge of banging each of their heads on the table and cracking their skulls open.

But I don’t do that.

I’m the good boy Gareth. I don’t fantasize about murder in public.

Okay, I do, but not to the point where it’s hard to control the urge.

And the main reason is because Kayden still hasn’t noticed me.

Me.

There’s been a sudden irrational burn in my chest since I walked in, and I can’t look away. I watch as the motherfucker—who was so sick his moms nursed him back to health like a goddamn baby—leans forward, his expression calm, collected. It’s like he’s not even noticing how the woman is practically hanging on to his every word.

If she doesn’t stop looking at him like that, we’ll have a serious fucking problem. Like an unidentifiable dead body.

Fuck. Why do I even care who he meets and how they look at him? Or how he speaks so low, I can’t hear anything.

I throw open my notebook and slide my pen back and forth so I don’t start biting my goddamn fingers.

Because he hasn’t looked away from her.

Not even once.

I pull out my phone and click on the conversation with him.

He picks up his phone from the table, glances at it, without a change in expression, then puts it back down—on its face.

That motherfucker⁠—

I release a long breath. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, and the woman definitely doesn’t matter.

Why am I getting worked up about this?

My fingers fly over the phone as Morgan grabs onto my arm, saying shit about being the only one for her, but I’m barely listening.

I delete the text and turn off my screen. I’m sounding desperate. Almost as if I’m…

Fuck.

I lift my head and see it. In Zara’s eyes as Morgan kisses my jaw, my cheek, biting and flirting and getting her fucking germs all over me. Just a small distraction, and she’s turning horny for no reason.

But it’s not her that matters. It’s Zara and how she glares at me, then lowers her head and clears her throat, after being caught being jealous in full HD.

Is that what I look like?

Fuck no. I don’t care enough about that motherfucker to be jealous.

I push Morgan off me—a reminder to get sanitized—and smile. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’m getting a bit of a headache. I’m leaving.”

On my way out, I throw one last glimpse at Kayden, and he’s smiling at something she said.

He never shows me that soft smile. It’s always malicious or mocking.

As I walk toward my car, I type.