Kiss The Villain: Chapter 22

I step out of the taxi, pulling the lapels of my coat over my neck as I open the umbrella.

Because of course it’s raining, as per the UK’s shit weather.

My phone vibrates and I stare at Jethro’s name and consider not replying. Yes, he got me Gareth’s location by hacking into his phone, which is why I’m by the archery range, but now, he should kindly fuck off.

With a sigh, I pick up, fleetingly noticing the pretentious matte-green sports car parked by the entrance. “What do you want?”

“Aside from you returning to US soil and abandoning all this nonsense?”

“Aside from that, yes. Make it quick.”

“You’re obsessing way too much over that kid. You need to reconsider this and see if you’re doing it for the right reasons at this point.”

“If that’s all…”

“Management is struggling, and Grant is making everyone’s life hell. You should come back, even temporarily⁠—”

“No.”

I don’t even think about it, because I won’t. That would undoubtedly make me lose Gareth. He’s still trying to slip away at any chance possible, giving me the silent treatment and ignoring me in a heartbeat.

If I go away, he’ll be rid of me, and that’s just not on the menu.

“Just to pacify things,” Jethro insists. “It’s getting out of hand fast. Simone and I are straining to hold it together.”

“I said. No.”

“Is it because of the kid?” He pauses, and when I don’t reply, he speaks low. “Jesus Christ. Who the hell are you and what have you done with the Kayden I know?”

I hang up so he’ll stop blabbering in my ear.

But also because I have no answer to his last question. Jethro, of all people, would notice the change, but the truth remains, I have no clue what the fuck is happening to me.

Except that I lose any semblance of control at the sight of bright, expressive green eyes.

I’ve quit trying to explain it even to myself, stopped being all-consumed in my thoughts, and chose to just feel.

For the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

I’m here.

Breathing properly.

I’ll think about everything else later.

The archery range reception has only one staff member. A middle-aged woman with gold-framed glasses eagerly lets me buy a one-day pass and keeps talking about their monthly and yearly memberships, which I cut short. Because I’m not here to talk to her.

After she gives a quick explanation about the facilities and shows me to the locker room, she finally leaves me alone.

I shrug off my coat at record speed and take one of the rental bow and arrows as if I have a clue about archery.

In reality, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have asked Jethro to track Gareth down either, but he was pushing it.

He’s been ignoring me for three days, and while that amount was tolerable in the past, now it’s no different than walking around with one lung. It’s suffocating, and I can’t breathe properly.

All the toxins are gathering in my one lung and causing pressure in my chest.

When I tried to text him, he was elusive.

He didn’t reply to any of my last texts and he didn’t come over either. He knows I can’t just go knocking on the door of the mansion he shares with his friends. Or grab him by the arm on campus, bend him over on my desk, and fuck him.

Though I did fantasize about that countless times, but it’s too risky. Being a popular professor in college is infuriating because my office is always full of students and other professors.

And while I don’t give a damn about my position, Gareth is a genius student and I don’t want to sabotage his studies.

Fucking ironic, really.

So I tried bribing him with pictures of ripe strawberries, telling him Mom sent them over for him—though, really, I asked her to.

Tonight, I sent him a picture of the package of strawberry-flavored hot chocolate I scoured the internet for since he loves everything with strawberries, but he didn’t see it. And when I called his phone, he didn’t reply. That’s when I asked Jethro for help, and he sent me this location.

I walk into the indoor range, where two other men are practicing, but there’s no trace of Gareth.

He couldn’t have possibly been on the outside range in this fucking weather⁠—

Sure enough, when I storm out, he’s right there, standing under the pouring rain, pulling an arrow against the string. His muscles flex beneath his soaked T-shirt, and the faint outline of the crossed arrows tattooed on the underside of his arm peeks through.

He’s drenched, water clinging to his hair and cascading in rivulets down his pale neck.

Like a piece of art, his body aligns in perfect, almost geometric precision as he pulls back and releases the arrow.

Bullseye.

I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

He doesn’t stop. Another arrow, then another, each one hitting its mark with mechanical consistency. Rain streams down his face, dripping off his jaw, but he’s completely unbothered.

I, however, am not.

Because he’ll get fucking sick.

I stride toward him, rain soaking me to the bone. As I approach, he turns in my direction, an arrow nocked and aimed at me. His eyes narrow as recognition sets in.

There’s something turbulent in his gaze, the color not quite right. And what does it say about me that I can read his mood in a single glance?

Too fucking far gone, probably.

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot me like he did during the initiation.

But instead, he lowers the bow and focuses back on the target. “Picked up archery just to stalk me?”

“To see you.”

He releases the arrow, but it lands slightly off-center. A frustrated breath tears out of him, and he lets the bow fall to his side as he faces me. “What if I don’t want to see you?”

“I’d need a proper reason for that. You’ve got to communicate, even when you’re mad. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know what’s wrong?”

“Forget it.” He pulls another arrow, rolling the tip between his fingers.

“Not if you’re still mad about it.”

He tilts his head, frowning a bit. “Why does that matter to you? Whether I’m mad or not.”

“Why wouldn’t it? I want to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but I want to be there anyway. Like right now.” I grab his arm, the chill of his skin jolting against my hand. “You’re not taking care of yourself by standing in the rain shooting arrows. Your body is mine, so you don’t get to be reckless with it. Are we clear?”

He swallows hard, his turbulent eyes wavering and flickering. They’re so lost and disturbed it makes me want to kill whoever put that look there—even if it’s me.

His lips are bluish, and I notice a small cut at the edge of his archery glove. I gently remove it, inspecting the wound. It’s shallow, but the sight of it irritates me anyway.

“How did this happen?”

He shrugs, silent, as if his mind is miles away.

The fact that he isn’t throwing out a snarky comment is more worrying than the wound.

After wrapping a tissue around his hand, I tug him toward the locker room. “We’re going home.”

He’s got spare sets of sweatpants and shirts in his locker, and I grab the loosest fit for myself. As we change, I keep stealing glances at him.

He’s acting…odd.

It’s concerning.

Now, why I am concerned about a literal psycho is anyone’s guess.

“Stop that,” he mutters, his voice quieter than usual.

“Stop what?”

“Ogling me like a massive pervert.”

“Why can’t I look at what’s mine?”

He turns away, but not before I catch the flush creeping up his neck.

At least, one thing hasn’t changed.

He acts like a goddamn menace, but he blushes around me. It’s endearing and adorable as fuck.

Once we’re dressed, I make sure he stays under the umbrella as we walk to his car.

“Give me your keys. I’ll drive if you’re tired.”

“No way. Do you even know how to drive this?”

“It’s a car, not a spaceship.”

He strokes the top of the car reverently. “It’s a special car. My twentieth birthday gift from Grandpa. The only one of its kind with its matte black-green exterior and 1,200 horsepower on a quad-turbo W16 engine that pushes 1,500 Nm of torque. Don’t get me started on the aerodynamic design that cuts through the air or the carbon body filter. You’re so special, aren’t you, Medusa?”

“You named your car Medusa?”

“Sure did. She’s badass.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t listen to him, baby girl,” he murmurs, stroking the car like a lover.

Am I jealous of a goddamn car because he speaks to it so softly and calls it baby girl?

Yes. Yes, I fucking am.

Something scurries from under the car and both of us remain still as a rat climbs up Gareth’s leg.

Wait. Not a rat.

A small drenched black cat meows its head off, its tiny claws grabbing on to Gareth’s pants for dear life.

“Get it off me.” Gareth tries to wiggle his leg, but the cat holds on tighter.

“So it’s not just dogs. You’re also afraid of cats?” I ask, amused.

“No, I just don’t know how to deal with animals. They’re unpredictable little fuckers like kids.”

“It’s probably just hungry.” I hand him the umbrella and crouch down.

The cat lets out a pitiful meow, its tiny claws gripping Gareth’s pants.

“Hey, little one. You’re freaking out this big, tall muscular guy who loves stabbing things. Mind getting off?”

“I’m not freaking out. Just hurry up.”

I chuckle and grab the cat, and it hisses, then meows in one long high-pitched sound. “Hard life this young?”

When I stand up again, holding the cat in the palm of my hand, Gareth pulls away a little, eyeing it as if it’s a bomb. “Just put it down or something.”

“It’ll die in this rain.”

“Then let’s drop it off at a shelter.”

“They’re closed this late. We’ll take it home and figure something out tomorrow.”

He says nothing and slides into his precious car that I kind of dislike now. What? He treats it better than me.

The cat, a girl, is shivering in my lap as I slide into the passenger seat.

She burrows into the scarf I’ve wrapped around her as we drive to a nearby pet store. Gareth parks, grumbling under his breath while I head inside to grab the essentials. The shopkeeper gives me a crash course in kitten care and recommends a visit to a 24-hour vet just to be safe.

My moms have two dogs and I’ve never had a cat, or a pet, for that matter—Dad would’ve never allowed such nonsense, so this is new territory for me.

When I return, Gareth eyes the bag suspiciously but doesn’t comment as we head to the vet. He stays near the door while I take care of everything, his posture stiff and defensive, like he’s preparing for a fight.

When I come back with the kitten in a carrier, bundled in my scarf and fast asleep after her checkup, Gareth grimaces.

“Can’t you leave her here?” he asks, already halfway to the car.

“It’s a vet, not a shelter. And she’s fine now—just starving and in need of a few routine treatments.”

“Great.” He casts a wary glance at the tiny creature as he starts the car.

“You never had pets?”

“Not exactly. Mom had this fat cat when I was a kid. Evil bastard scratched me and Kill every chance he got. Even Dad wasn’t safe. He only liked Mom. The rest of us avoided him like the plague.”

“Aw, traumatized?”

“No.” He scowls. “That thing better not scratch me.”

I laugh, unable to help myself. “So you are scared of cats.”

“I’m not scared,” he snaps, his tone sounding almost offended.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“Kayden!”

“What? I believe you.”

“But you’re laughing. Is this funny to you?”

“Very. Your weakness is harmless little animals.”

“They’re not harmless. Those buggers are unpredictable.”

I laugh again and he gives me a murderous look, but, truly, I only see it as cute now.

At least he’s not in a bad mood like when I found him at the range. I’ll still need to learn everything about that, though. But for now, I’ll just enjoy teasing the hell out of him.