Kiss The Villain: Chapter 5

Someone is staring at me.

No.

Glaring.

The vicious eyes skim the back of my head like a breeze—or more accurately, wind.

Turbulent, stormy wind.

I rip my gaze from the PowerPoint and face the class, then I slip a hand into my pocket as I meet that glare.

It’s a real effort not to let my lips fall into a smile.

An honest struggle.

Carson is sitting in the very last row, sliding his pen back and forth without looking at his notebook. He seems to have lost his grip on his usual calm façade, gradually disintegrating into my chaos.

See, he’s truly a mastermind at masking his true emotions. I’ve seen how he exudes a collected demeanor with friends, looking the ideal part of a harmless kitten when, in fact, he’s harboring a demon.

Hell, during that night I first saw him, he wore a poker face even after I shot him. And I thought he was putting up a front, but I’m starting to believe that’s just his default—looking so terribly disinterested at the whole world.

This week, however, in our second class together, he seems to have lost the ability to tuck away his obvious hatred.

It makes it hard not to dismiss the entire class and back him into a corner, trap him in the palms of my hands, or squash him beneath my feet.

Break him to pieces once and for all.

My eyes lock with his for a brief second, and I admit that green looks far better in his irises than the fake brown. His eyes are electric, a charged mixture of impulsive loathing and patient retribution, each flicker a promise of something darker.

It doesn’t fit with the rest of his poised appearance, though.

He’s tall and muscled, his frame draped in quiet luxury clothes that could easily pay for a student’s tuition. He has blond hair that falls in organized chaos on his forehead in a floppy hairstyle, a clean-shaven, sharp jawline, and high, chiseled cheekbones that lend him an almost otherworldly, medieval prince-like aura, as if he belongs to a world where power is absolute, and everyone around him is simply waiting for his command.

This particular prince, however, is broken. There’s no charm or goodness within him, at least none that’s not manufactured.

He seems so harmless and approachable, but then again, so were the most notorious serial killers.

Gareth Carson has the looks of a prince and the personality of a devil.

A man who’ll paint the world in bright colors for his victims and then splash it all in red.

Which is why he’s my red now. I’m the devil who’ll bring another devil to his fucking knees.

Literally.

Figuratively.

A rush of anticipation slithers down my spine, and I force myself to stop fantasizing in class about fucking up my student.

Everything happens in the correct time frame.

Pulling my eyes from his, I stand behind the desk, my gaze sweeping over the students. “In the upcoming weeks, we will engage in a mock trial. This exercise will help you understand the delicate balance of evidence, the weight of reasonable doubt, and the very real lives that will be affected by our decisions. And because I don’t mince any details, we will tackle a case that is as difficult as it is sensitive: a rape case.”

The weight of my words settles in the room like a whip.

Carson’s movements stop, and I expect him to break the pen like he did last week, but that doesn’t happen.

Hmm. I haven’t pushed him that far yet.

Continuing on…

“Now, on to the case.” I click on the remote button, showing a summary on the screen. “The accused is James Rutherford, a wealthy businessman, charged with the drugging and rape of a young woman named Rebecca Blake. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old woman who was found unconscious by a staff member in a hotel room after a night out with friends. The police believe she was drugged and sexually assaulted.”

Everyone is focused on the slides.

Everyone but Carson.

Because his entire creepy, intense attention is on me.

If eyes were lasers, he would’ve burned me on the spot.

I repress a smile as my composed voice carries on. “There is substantial evidence—witnesses, DNA, and the victim’s medical report—suggesting the crime took place, but there is no clear memory from the victim, as she was in and out of consciousness, and there are conflicting statements from other witnesses. The defense is challenging the sufficiency of the evidence, claiming that there is reasonable doubt about whether the victim was truly assaulted or if it was a planned interaction.”

Carson’s scribbling picks up in intensity, but there’s still no broken pen.

Pity.

“I’ll email you all the case material, but now, I’ll randomly assign roles. If I call your name, please stand.” I go through the not-so-random list I have. “Meyers, Jones, and Omar, you’ll be the prosecution team. You’ll focus on building a strong narrative of the crime, utilizing the victim’s testimony, the DNA evidence, and witness accounts. The prosecution needs to prove that the defendant intentionally assaulted the victim and should be held accountable for his actions.”

All three students stand up with a gleam in their eyes. They’re the smartest kids in this class and have a true talent for law. Carson is smart, too. On paper.

But his motives are wrong.

Not that I should judge. I never pursued law for philanthropic reasons.

“Carson.” With an icy tone, I pretend to read his name from my monitor, and he slowly stands up, still clutching the pen. “You will act as the defense attorney for James Rutherford. Your role is to prove that there is no clear evidence that your client is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

This time, the pen breaks in his hand, and I let my lips twitch in a smile as I call other students’ names on autopilot, assigning them as junior members of the defense team—all the idiot ones—and the smarter ones as jurors and witnesses.

“Your job is to scrutinize every piece of evidence, every testimony, and to come to your own verdict, just as you would in an actual courtroom. You’ll have a week for pretrial preparation. We’ll start with the opening statement next week.” I turn off the screen. “Class dismissed.”

I gather my belongings and exit the classroom before the students. Many of them fall into step on either side of me, particularly the prosecution team, asking follow-up questions about the assignment. The others are only using the assignment as an excuse to vie for my attention.

They’re barking up the wrong tree. One, I prefer women my age. Two, I’d never fuck a student.

Except for the one I catch a glimpse of in my peripheral vision who’s standing at the front of the class and watching me instead of listening to those surrounding him.

Though I don’t particularly want to fuck him.

I’m actually straight and have never found men attractive.

So how come the thought of filling Carson’s pretty face with tears as he chokes on my cock makes my dick twitch in its confinement?

Power.

Control.

Breaking someone into their subhuman form.

Those elements are clearly more important than actual sex or attraction to me.

Though I’ve never had an erection for a man I wanted to break. Hmm. What is it about Carson that’s…so alluringly titillating?

The tears streaming down his face when he was choking on my cock? The way he sucked me roughly, giving me much of the pain I was giving him?

I am into fucking mouths, that’s for sure, but most women are delicate, and I’ve always been careful not to take it too far, so I’ve never really fucked a throat that hard.

Never had vicious, violent lips trying to suck my cum dry.

And I, honest to God, didn’t give a fuck that it was a man’s lips. Maybe because it doesn’t matter whose lips?

No, that’s wrong. I was consciously aware of his male scent, his sharp jaw, and his ruthless big hands.

I knew he was different from the usual softness I’m used to, and I…didn’t hate it.

Some might say I enjoyed it way too much, to the point that my cock is twitching at the memories.

But I digress.

After I get rid of the clingy students, I finish my other classes for the day and head out.

I’ve opted for a full European life. No car or other means of transportation.

Brighton Island is small anyway, and I prefer to walk around in the UK’s depressing windy and rainy weather instead.

As if.

I’m mostly observing.

Just like the little pest who’s been tailing me.

Correction: a little monster.

Carson’s words about watching my back are actually a job he took upon himself. Literally.

For a week now, he’s been following me everywhere.

All the time.

Like a freak.

He’s even skipping some classes. I know because one of the other fool professors that he has in the palm of his hand has expressed concern about his absence.

“He’s such a bright student. It’s not like him to skip. I’m worried about him.”

You should be worried about your brain that he’d eat for breakfast if given the chance.

I walk into an organic food shop and skim through the freshly roasted coffee beans.

Carson does, in fact, make a decent stalker. He always keeps a safe distance, uses different cars, and even wears hats and sunglasses to cover his hair and face. He has a knack for making himself invisible when needed, and sometimes, it takes me a while to notice him.

Would give him four out of five stars. Knocking one star off for the unoriginal content.

“Hello there.” A teenager with orange hair and chipped black nail polish says in a singsong voice. “Need my help with anything at all?”

I’d hope not. I don’t expect someone like her to help me with my particular taste for coffee.

“Just looking around, thank you,” I say, browsing the bags and offering no smile. I don’t give a fuck how people perceive me.

I lost the ability to care about that a long time ago.

“That one is our bestseller.” She motions at a bag with a huge red tag that says ‘bestseller’ on top. Young people these days share one brain cell, I swear.

“Can I smell samples?”

“Of course you can.” She fumbles around to get the tray set up. Her anxious energy bounces off my skin like a ping-pong ball on a loosening thread.

If it were anyone else, they’d feel some form of sympathy or try to alleviate the situation, but I just stand there, letting her flounder in her own mental blood.

It’s fascinating how her cheeks turn red as she fumbles over her word diarrhea that I effectively filter out. Even Carson seems annoyed in the discreet reflection of the glass, judging by the way he keeps bringing his finger to his mouth and then letting it fall back down.

Three times now.

Five if we count the two times he did it in class this morning.

His bad habits are pouring out like a damn fucking waterfall. It’s euphoric.

And I find myself riveted, fully absorbed in what else I can squeeze out of that perturbed mind of his.

I buy the strongest-smelling bag of coffee beans, and as I pay, Carson inches away. He’s methodical and could apply for a position as a professional stalker if he weren’t already a rich kid with his entire blood-filled future set at birth.

To make his session worthwhile, I take a tour around the town center. And because small talk and typical human interactions seem to suck the soul out of him, I indulge in lengthy conversations about fuck knows what.

I want to see a pen snapping again, metaphorically, in his head.

Snub as many neurons as possible. Even if the whole ordeal bores me to tears.

By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve drained him enough. Like a kid, he’ll retreat to his bed, probably fantasizing about killing me in the most painful way possible.

I smile as I walk to the large building where I’m renting an apartment.

Gareth stops near the oak tree across the street like he always does, and I pull out my phone while walking into the building.

I’m still staring at my exchange with Jethro when my phone rings.

Grant, my brother, is calling. Three times today.

He’s annoyingly clingy and staggeringly persistent. I’ll give him that.

I click Ignore and walk into the apartment.

The space is huge but sparse, deliberately so, with clean lines and a minimalist design that leaves no room for profiling. The floors are dark hardwood, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the cold, clinical light from the overhead fixtures. The walls are painted in muted grays and blacks, devoid of decoration, save for a few abstract pieces of art that came with the house.

A single leather sofa sits in the center of the living area, its sharp angles matching the rest of the decor, too perfect to be comfortable.

The only trace of warmth is the scent of lavender. It presses on my chest like a fucking weight and I inhale it into my lungs before spitting it back out.

Turning on my vinyl record player, I wait until Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7’s mellow notes fill the space before I head to the kitchen.

I methodically grind the beans and then take my time brewing the coffee. The strong fragrance overpowers the lavender, smothering it, and I just stand there.

Watching the coffee dripping into the cup in synch with the music.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Like blood.

It’s soothing—or disturbing, depending on your school of thought.

After a sip of the over-roasted coffee, I empty it down the drain and throw away the full bag of beans. I pour myself a glass of whiskey on ice instead and then stare out the window.

Carson is gone.

He’s so anticlimactic.

I’ve been waiting for him to act on his promise, but he seems content to watch from the shadows.

Though content isn’t the right word. I believe he likes to know all the information before he takes action, but it’s getting tedious.

Dull, too.

Might have to take things into my own hands after all.

Situations just don’t work as well without my interference.

In my thirty-three years of life, I’ve never met anyone as efficient as I am.

What a nuisance.

I down my drink, take a shower, reply to some work emails, then turn off the music and lie down on the bed.

The smell of lavender fills my nostrils and I close my eyes, drifting off to sleep.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

The noise keeps repeating on a loop and I open my eyes. The faint sound of weeping protrudes through the walls like a spirit.

“No…” Mom wails, her screams bouncing off my skin. “Please, no. Nooo⁠—”

But her voice is drowned by a shot.

Shadows crawl across the ceiling, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes. Their hollow eyes gleam with a twisted hunger, and their mouths crack open, releasing a low, grating screech that claws at my eardrums, sinking deep into my skull.

They fall toward me, their cold, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest like a thousand unseen hands. The air thickens with their presence, a crushing force that makes it harder to breathe or move. Their dark forms press into me, the cold creeping deeper, dragging me under as if the darkness itself is trying to swallow me whole.

Die already.

Die.

Just die.

The weight on my chest is choking, a crushing force that pins me to the bed. I gasp, but it’s as if the very air has been stolen. My body is frozen, unable to move, every breath shallow and labored.

The shadows in the corners of the room twist and loom, dark shapes that distort into her face.

Her blood-soaked face.

I gasp awake, staring at the white ceiling devoid of the sticky shadows.

Or the bloody face.

But the weight over me isn’t gone, because I’m staring at a different face.

In the darkness, Carson’s pretty features loom over me like a fucking demon. He’s straddling my waist and holding a syringe as his lips tilt in a creepy smirk.

“Hello there, Professor. It’s time to pay for your fucking sins.”

And then he jams the syringe into my neck.