Kiss The Villain: Chapter 3

The urge to see blood spill before my eyes has been constant and unshakable since I left the Serpents’ mansion.

It’s been throbbing beneath the wound in my hand, the ache in my jaw, and the disgusting taste I still can’t purge no matter how many times I brush my teeth and gargle and even swallow mouthwash.

It’s trapped between my skin and that urge for pain.

The demons in the void have been pulsing, fucking palpitating for something.

Pain, yes, but that doesn’t seem to be enough no matter how many times I jam my knife into my hand wound, twisting and twirling the blade until my blood forms a pool at the shower drain.

I stare as the bright red spreads, its intensity faltering, slowly diluting to a murky, sickly hue before it’s washed away by the water. It swirls around like it’s trying to cling to something, but it’s powerless, fading, draining into nothingness.

The constrictive feeling perching on my chest doesn’t, though. Turn into nothingness, I mean. It’s like a heavy burning ball sitting on my chest, a constant fucking weight I can barely breathe through.

It’s spreading, the burn, to the back of my throat, my hair, my abdomen, my cheeks.

Everywhere he fucking touched me.

I scrubbed my face until it turned red. Even my shoulders, my stomach, my dick. I’ve been scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing everywhere he put his filthy fucking fingers—even through my clothes. And when that didn’t work, I turned to my knife. Another knife, not the one he shot the fuck out of my hand.

This isn’t working either, it seems, and I need to stop before I damage my nerves and can’t use my hand properly.

I need it to kill that motherfucker.

Throwing the knife down, I step out of the shower, my blood mixing with the water and forming rivulets down my fingers before it drips to the floor.

Like a constant.

Drip. Red.

Drip. Red.

Drip. Red.

I like the view of red on the white tiles. The irregular shape of the blood droplets. The way they get darker with each drop.

It’s calming, in a sense, which makes it a risk of addiction. If I get used to this sight, I’ll want to see it again and again, in more significant quantities. Like a drug.

But I don’t do addictions.

And I stopped one from becoming dangerous over six years ago.

So I’m stable now. I should be stable.

I drag my attention from the blood and stand in front of the mirror. The antifog surface shows a crystal image of water dripping down my hair, onto my impassive face, my abs, and to my half-erect cock.

It’s been in this state since that piece of shit left me with blue balls, and I refuse to touch myself.

This isn’t arousal due to anything he’s done, and it’s only a mere miscalculation in my fucking system.

I swear to fuck, if my dick keeps being a hindrance, I’ll castrate it.

That internal threat doesn’t get the little bitch to get the fuck down.

With a sigh, I throw a towel over my head, wrap another around my waist, and bandage my hand. The blood still soaks through, forming a blotch.

Maybe I need stitches.

What a fucking mess.

I pause after I walk into my room while toweling my hair.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a detached tone, not bothering to feign annoyance at seeing my brother sitting on my bed.

He’s the last person I want to engage with right now.

Killian’s arms are speared behind his head as he leans against the headboard, his legs crossed at his ankles as he watches me.

He’s about two and a half years younger than me but is a fourth-year med student because he loves showing off his intellect and made sure to skip ahead. I did skip one year, but that was all.

Standing out like he does is the furthest thing from what I want.

A gleam shines in his dark-blue eyes. We barely look like siblings. He has Mom’s eyes and Dad’s dark hair. I have Mom’s blonde hair and Dad’s green eyes.

And he hates those eyes—Dad’s and mine, I mean. Something about not being Dad’s favorite.

Well, he should’ve never stood out.

“I’m just checking in on you.” He grins. “Saw blood on your car’s steering wheel.”

So I might have started the knife thing when I got into the car, using the spare one in the glove box. Now, I feel bad for Medusa—my car. I need to give her a thorough clean and apologize for putting her through this.

I raise a brow. “And why were you looking at my car?”

“So I could tamper with your brakes as I previously promised.”

“I see.” I walk toward my desk, not in the mood to engage in our usual conversation where he threatens to eliminate me and I pretend to be scared or that he creeps me the fuck out.

He doesn’t. He’s me in a different, less glamorous font.

I just don’t like to be lumped in the same box as him.

At this time, I’d usually be studying or putting on the show that I’m doing so, but now I need Kill to leave so I can sleep.

“You see?” He jumps up from the bed and stalks toward me with a slight narrowing in his eyes. “That’s all you have to say?”

Now, there’s good news and bad news about Kill’s presence.

Good news: my hard-on is gone. Thank fuck.

Bad news: he’s suspicious of me.

“I just had a bad night.” An understatement. “Can I get a rain check on your shenanigans?”

“Bad night in what sense?” He motions at my bandaged hand. “Who did that?”

A dead man walking. “It was an accident.”

“Who was responsible for the accident?”

“Why are you asking?” I let my lips form in a smile. “You’ll avenge my honor?”

“Our honor. Can’t have you disgracing my last name.”

I throw my hair towel at him. “Just stop being a red flag and we won’t have that problem.”

“You’re bleeding again.” He shakes the bloodstained towel in his hand. “You probably need stitches. I’ll take a look if you beg me to.”

“No, thanks.”

He walks out of the room, but before I can release a breath, he comes back in with his medical kit.

I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm. “Did you not hear the ‘no, thanks’ part?”

“Nah, I’d have to care about your opinion to hear your words.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed opposite him, the box between us. The quicker he’s done, the sooner he’ll be out of my face.

Besides, I do need stitches.

Because of that motherfucker in the Serpents’ mansion.

He didn’t stab the knife in the wound, but it’s his fault.

My spine jerks upright at the thought of him, and disturbing images flash through my head.

Thankfully, Killian’s voice cuts through them like an arrow as he examines the gaping wound at the side of my hand. “The fuck type of accident is this?”

“Either stitch it or fuck off.”

“Getting snappy today,” he says with that slight narrowing of his eyes.

I inhale deeply, because I’m losing my cool, and I don’t do that.

A groan escapes me when he douses the wound with something that burns after digging his gloved finger inside. “That fucking hurts.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you got yourself in whatever fuckery you indulged in tonight.”

Indulged.

I don’t like his use of that word, almost as if he has everything figured out and knows I do indulge in all sorts of shit he shouldn’t be aware of.

“You know.” He works on the sutures at an impressive speed. “My career choice has nothing to do with fixing you the fuck up. I only chose this to see inside people without killing them. Your insides bring me no satisfaction due to how ugly they are.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t okay me. Just don’t let me see inside you again and hurt my eyes with the view.”

“Is this your version of being worried?”

“Not even if you die.”

“Who’ll handle your tiresome personality then?”

“Actually, you’re right. Don’t die, so I can have a punching bag at all times.”

I let my lips curl in a tired smile as I stare at the ceiling. Little fucker can be effortlessly entertaining.

“Hey, Kill.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know if Yulian is into guys?”

He lifts his head. “Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out a plan to bring him down, and I heard rumors that I want to confirm before plotting.”

There’s nothing suspicious about what I’m saying. While I take a background position in the Heathens, I’m mostly the brain behind many of our operations.

“If by guys, you mean Vaughn, then yeah. Yulian definitely wants to fuck him. Or be fucked by him, I’m not sure.”

“Our Vaughn?” I ask, honestly surprised.

“Is there another Vaughn?”

“The New York Bratva Pakhan’s son, Vaughn?”

“Again, do we know another one? You hit your head or something?”

Vaughn is the fifth member of the Heathens. An absent member. He’s around Kill’s age and chose not to come to this island or go to this college, opting to stay in New York. It was solely his choice.

He was vehemently against studying with us, no matter how many times Nikolai and Jeremy asked him to.

But he still joins the fun at initiations, mostly to hunt people.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Vaughn is straight. Hasn’t he had a girlfriend for years?”

“The girlfriend Yulian seduced and fucked, then sent Vaughn the video of her screaming his name while riding him? They’ll probably break up. That is, if he doesn’t kill her. You know how much he hates sharing.”

“When did that happen?”

“Last week? Right before we got back to school.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I heard it when I happened to pass by Vaughn talking about it to Jeremy and promising to kill Yulian.”

Happened to pass by in Kill’s vocabulary is eavesdropping. He loves gathering the most random shit about people. Big or small. He thinks it’ll help him crack them open and see inside them. Figuratively or literally.

I, on the other hand, find most people depressingly dull and would rather not gather any unnecessary details.

Vaughn is anything but dull, though, especially with this latest development.

“What do you think his plan with Yulian is? He’s on the other side of the ocean, so he can’t do much about him.”

My brother shrugs. “Not sure yet, but he’s putting in a last-minute transfer request to come here next term, which is playing into Yulian’s hand, if you ask me.”

“Because Yulian is the reason Vaughn didn’t want to study here in the first place,” I say, not a question, but a fact.

The pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together.

The way Yulian always, and I mean always, only fights Kill, Jeremy, or Nikolai in the ring.

Those are the only three he’s had any interest in fighting. He also makes sure someone is filming. I thought it was a sense of pride, but this is different.

He’s probably been sending those to Vaughn.

Our friend, on the other hand, has chosen not to engage in Yulian’s antics, hence the girlfriend and the staying in New York thing.

But he obviously hasn’t been able to completely stay away. I’ve always thought it’s because we’re his friends, since we grew up together, so he wants to pay us a visit now and again, but maybe that’s not all of it.

“Exactly.” Kill finishes and releases my hand as he grins. “Not sure what type of foreplay those two are into, but shit will be interesting. The sons of the leaders of the two most notorious Russian mafia branches? I sense trouble and I’m here for it.”

I say nothing and kick Kill out. As I close the door, I lean against it and let my lips pull in a smile.

This is a variable I didn’t expect.

The motherfucker from tonight is such a fool. Yulian is obviously obsessed with Vaughn in some way, and that means the man who’s probably a bodyguard is struggling with some form of unrequited lust, or even better, love.

I’d feel sorry for him if I knew how.

I thought I’d find him and kill him, but now, I have an upgraded plan—make him suffer.

In the most painful way possible.

I’ll make him wish he never met me.

Let alone touched me.

“This is so fucking boring.” My cousin Nikolai wraps an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders as we walk to campus. “Give me something, Jer. A battle, a war, a little toy to fuck with.”

“We have the initiation coming. Try to hold it in until then,” Jeremy speaks in a calm, unbothered tone.

He’s the Heathens’ leader, the son of the New York Bratva’s strategist, and has quite a few similarities with his father. Like me, he doesn’t act without a plan, but unlike me, he’s openly ruthless when need be.

“It’s not piss, Jer. I can’t just hold it in,” Nikolai grumbles out loud, drawing people’s attention due to his big frame and the full-sleeve tattoos peeking from beneath his T-shirt.

He’s my maternal cousin—our moms are identical twin sisters—and the most chaotic person I know. He’s the most violent among us and gets off on crunching people’s bones, but he’s also random as fuck.

While my mom is a Russian mafia princess, she separated from the organization long before I was born. Aunt Rai and her husband, however, are two of their leaders. That gives Nikolai, like Jeremy and Vaughn, a legacy to continue and his parents’ shoes to fill.

Kill and I are just here for the ride. A revival of our distant Russian roots, perhaps. In my case, I need a venting outlet, which I’m sure is the same for Kill.

“Just get your dick wet, Niko,” my brother says, walking on Niko’s left. “That usually takes care of the aggression, even if temporarily.”

“Satan’s heir, you evil genius.” Niko releases Jeremy and headlocks my brother.

“Stating the obvious, I see,” Kill says in his usual arrogant tone that will one day get him murdered decapitation style.

Niko keeps talking about his dick, and I’m glad we’re not in the house or he’d be indulging in exhibitionism.

I fall behind to match Jeremy’s steps. “Vaughn is coming to the initiation, right?”

“Is there a reason he wouldn’t?”

“Just checking.”

Jeremy glances at my bandage, then back at my face. “How about getting your hand properly checked? Kill said the wound is deep.”

“You know he likes to exaggerate things.”

“I saw the blood in the car. Didn’t seem exaggerated.”

“Just a little accident, Jer.”

“I expect Niko and Kill to get into little accidents. Hell, even Vaughn, but not you, Gaz.”

Jeremy stops and I’m forced to do the same. Since he’s the oldest among us, he annoyingly takes the leadership position seriously.

Way too seriously for my taste.

“Won’t happen again.” From now on, I’ll be the one inflicting pain.

“Better not. You’re the only levelheaded person I trust to keep things under control.”

“Don’t worry.” As long as I’m under control, that is.

“You won’t tell me what actually happened?”

“Not important.” I tap his shoulder, wearing my most charming smile. “See you later.”

I let them go to their respective classes and head to mine. Kill goes to the med school building, and Jeremy and Nikolai, who are in business school, go to that building.

The walk to my first class is constantly interrupted by students and professors greeting me, talking to me, wanting as much of my attention as they can get.

They’re like sponges, sucking on and soaking up my words and smiles and empty compliments just so they’ll grow bigger and more inflated.

While I usually don’t mind, their constant noise is worsening the headache I woke up with today.

Sleep evaded me for most of last night, and when I did nod off, I dreamt of a man in a skeleton mask with gold serpents wrapping his fingers around my dick and squeezing until it hurt.

I remember thinking that I don’t find men attractive.

And his veiny hand around my cock shouldn’t make it so hard that it’s leaking precum.

But then he was jerking me off, roughly, until it hurt—the way I like it but have never had it.

And I grunted, in the nightmare, about to come, but then he was shoving a pillow over my head and suffocating me to death.

I woke up in a puddle of sweat and with another fucking hard-on.

Thank God Niko barged into my room and threw a bucket of ice water on me just for fun—effectively killing the tent—or we would’ve had a problem.

The headache is getting worse despite the painkillers I took. My hand wound still throbs and my jaw aches so bad, it was impossible to eat, so I only had coffee and a strawberry for breakfast.

This is one of those days where I wish I hadn’t chosen overachiever, A+ student as my mask, because every single person is pissing me the fuck off.

As soon as I walk into the lecture hall, I’m once again surrounded by my classmates, as if they’re bees and I’m damn fucking honey. They’re all buzzing and talking nonstop around me once I take my seat, and I just want them to shut the fuck up already. All their blabbering is causing my head to pound worse.

“Where were you last night, Gaz?” a guy whose name I’ve forgotten asks.

A brunette slides to my side, shoving her tits against my arm. Morgan. I only remember because I fucked her a few times and she always brings one of her friends to join. A booty call of sorts.

She grins up at me, her mouth too big for her pretty face, and the lack of symmetry bugs me. “I thought we’d have one of those fun study nights.”

Fun, as in I’d fuck her and her friend while they pretend to kiss and lick each other’s pussies to turn me on.

It never really works.

I only get hard on demand.

Except for last night, a demon whispers from the void, and I’m about to gag him bondage style.

I smile and slightly shift away. “Next time, beautiful.”

She blushes, but she still doesn’t remove her tits and even slides them up and down my arm, and I want to break her fucking neck.

I don’t usually get this prickly about people touching me. Yes, I hate it, but I can manage to mask it so well, no one can tell.

Right now, however, I struggle not to shove her away. I lift my thumb to my mouth, slightly flick it at the corner, then drop it back down when my phone buzzes on the table.

Would you look at that. My brother’s ex-fuck buddy, who sucked my cock just to continue chasing him.

She was so ready to ride my cock as well, but I happen to draw the line at sharing holes with my brother. It’d be nice to mess with him, though.

Pretty sure he has a girl he’s been stalking at the neighboring Royal Elite University. Now, if both she and Cherry could make it to the initiation, how entertaining would that be?

Not as entertaining as Vaughn and Yulian—the latter of whom won’t refuse an invitation if given one—but close enough.

As the others keep buzzing around me, I reply to Cherry.

What a tool. She must think I’m a simp who’s drooling over her and she can use me as she sees fit. In fact, Cherry has been hinting at the initiation for a while. Only an idiot wouldn’t notice her blatant attempts to get invited.

Don’t go stating the obvious now.

“…what do you think, Gaz?”

I lift my head at Morgan’s voice—who’s still rubbing her tits all over me.

The shirt will be burned later.

“Depends, really,” I say, even though I have no clue what the fuck they’re talking about.

“I mean, he has a great reputation.” One of the guys, Meyers, picks up the conversation. “And since criminal law is an important part of the core curriculum, this will be fun.”

“Heard he’s hot as fuck,” a girl chimes in. “I call dibs.”

“Get in line,” her friend says.

“I’m the one who shared the information about him first,” Morgan protests.

Ah. The professor.

I swear to fuck I lose brain cells whenever I listen to their gossip.

Whoever this professor is, they’ll fall under my spell like the lot of them. I’m charming, smart, and an A+ student, which is porn for professors. But, like, professionally.

None of my classmates even try to beat me in grades anymore. Not even Zara Jones, Morgan’s friend and the only one who’s now talking about the Professor’s good reputation instead of how hot he is.

Zara, like everyone, learned she’ll never reach my level. What’s effortless for me is something she and the others can only achieve if they study day and night.

Shuffling ensues as a tall, broad man walks into class. Everyone heads to their seat, and the girls who were fighting about dibs squeal.

“He’s drop-dead gorgeous,” one of them whispers.

“Lock me up, Your Honor,” the other says, and they giggle like schoolgirls.

Damn hormonal college kids.

I drag my gaze to the professor again and pause.

Because he’s watching me.

Among everyone in the entire lecture hall, his gray, dead, and absolutely disturbing eyes are set on me.

My skin prickles and my wound burns.

Before he even speaks, before he opens his mouth and I confirm my suspicion, a deep premonition slashes through my skin and my demons roar in their pit, devouring each other alive.

His dead gaze remains on me as he says, “Hello, class. My name is Kayden Lockwood, and I’m your criminal law professor.”