Kiss The Villain Quotes

He's not a monster. He's just a villain. He's not a villain. He's just a boy. I'm kissing a boy. I'm kissing Baz.

A Story of a Nemesis and a Villain with no chance at a happy ending. Where the prince doesn't save the princess. He tortures her. And the beauty doesn't sleep. She's stuck. In a nightmare

Yes, my sweet villain, my darling god. I will be as sober as a stone carving, just as soon as I can.” And with that, he kisses me on the mouth.

¨Yes, my sweet villain, my darling god. I will be as sober as a stone carving, just as soon as I can.¨ And with that, he kisses me on the mouth. I feel a cacophony of things at once. Page 284

To the ones who would kiss the villain… but only in fiction

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

We’re so toxic, it’s unhealthy but also right. Because we’re each other’s darkness and light. I’m his.

Please go fuck yourself, Professor.

After which he disappeared. For two weeks. Sick leave, apparently. Hope he dies.

While she does like boys, she generally finds the traits of a compelling villain—arrogance, malice, an angsty backstory—tedious in a man. Like, what do hot guys with long dark hair even have to be that upset about? Get a clarifying shampoo and suck it up, Kylo Ren. So your rich parents sent you to magic camp and you didn’t make any friends. Big deal.

What are you thinking about?’ I said, ‘The same thing you’re thinking about.’ We didn’t even need to say your name.” She frowns down into the red pool of her wine. “It was just a kiss, but God, it hurt like hell.

But that was what this alliance led up to. Not a kiss stolen in the dark, or a priceless gift given without being asked. A duel.

It’s love if I can’t live without him and can feel this peaceful in his arms, right?

He stared up at me for a moment, then lifted his head and pulled me down to meet him. It was almost a brotherly kiss, but not quite. Too fragile, too painful. Soft whispers of surprise and confusion swept through the audience. My heart throbbed, and it hurt so badly that I bit his lip. I felt his breath catch and let him go, lowered him to the floor again. Silence lingered overlong.

You’re my goddamn home, baby.

I’m not gay, but I can’t stop thinking about my superior—Help?!

We should live, my Lesbia, and love And value all the talk of stricter Old men at a single penny. Suns can set and rise again; For us, once our brief light has set, There's one unending night for sleeping. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, Then another thousand, then a second hundred, Then still another thousand, then a hundred; Then, when we've made many thousands, We'll muddle them so as not to know Or lest some villain overlook us Knowing the total of our kisses. (Translated by Guy Lee)

I’m having a sexuality crisis. It’s messing with my head. My fucking sanity.

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.

Love it when you get rough, Mishka.

Practically every princess in peril has been saved by Love's First Kiss! For goodness' sake, between witches and fairies, can't we think of something more original? I'm weary of this. Why must a young girl need a man to save her? Why can't a princess fight for her own life, break her own curse? Why must it always be a prince? By Hades, I want to kill Prince Phillip on principle, just so we don't have yet one more prince kissing some helpless sleeping girl, making her feel like she has to marry him out of gratitude.

You came for me,” she whispered up against his mouth. His fingertips grazed her temple, smoothing away hair that had fallen in her face, and he pressed another kiss to her lips. “You called. How could I not?

You’re right. This is so gay and we’re definitely straight.

I have made calculations that would beggar your soul. What is it that villains always say at the end of stories? You and I are more alike than you think? Well,” the Marquess took September’s hand in hers and very gently kissed it. “We are. Oh, how alike we are! I feel very warmly towards you, and I only want to protect you, as I wish someone had protected me. Come, September, look out the window with me. It’s not a difficult thing. A show of faith, let’s call it.

This time, I'm not kissing the prince to become the princess, I'm tonguing the villain to guarantee the destruction of others.

I used to think that I needed to be part of a story, a big story, one with trials and villains and temptations and rewards. That's how I would conquer it, conquer death." She sighed again, and nestled in closer to me. "All that matters, in the end, is the little things. The way Mim says my name to wake me up in the morning. The way Bee's hand feels in mine. The way the sun cast my shadow across the yard yesterday. The way your cheeks flush when we kiss. The smell of hay and the taste of strawberries and the feel of fresh black dirt between my toes. This is what matters, Midnight.

Something about hating the fuck out of the guy’s guts, but he’s still being drawn to him anyway. Same.

Fucking lunatic would kill me in a heartbeat.

I don’t believe I would’ve ever discovered that part of myself if it weren’t for those encounters, so a part of me is grateful. The other part would still stab you, though.

Carson is a little psycho—a young one,

I blame it on the chest disease he gave me.

I looped one arm around her neck, pulled her close, and kissed her temple. I felt her sigh, and when she breathed her sadness out, I breathed it in.

You know how I knew you weren’t Angelo when we kissed? Not because of your height or your scent. It was because you tasted like ash. Like betrayal. You, Senator Keaton, taste bitter and cold, like poison. You taste like a villain.

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.

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.

But losing him…” My voice cracks as a violent wave hits the rocks, sending icy water splashing against my legs. “It’s unbearable. I haven’t been able to breathe, as if I’ve been walking around with a fireball lodged in my chest, suffocating me every moment of every day.

I believe the reason I struggled so much in the beginning was because I thought I always needed to be in control, so actually submitting to someone else made me panic. I don’t like feeling vulnerable, but with him? I love it.

And I can’t stop thinking that he’s outside. In my space. Around me. Because he also couldn’t stay away.

He might not be officially diagnosed, but he has clear signs of antisocial personality disorder and possible narcissistic tendencies.

I want to ruin that. Ruin him. Break him the fuck up.

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

What a mess. Always a fucking mess, little monster,

It’s the less interesting Carson.

disgusting, by the way, don’t ever put your dirty shoes anywhere near me.

It’s bad form to get a man excited and then leave. How about we fix that?

Wanting Gareth was the most natural fucking thing that’s happened to me.

I might be the one who fucks Gareth, but he’s the one who’s owning me inch by agonizing inch. Because I like kissing him more than I’ve liked kissing anyone.

Hello, class. My name is Kayden Lockwood, and I’m your criminal law professor.

He said I didn’t have a choice in being with him, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t have a choice in being with me.

Truth is, everyone loves a bit of anarchy. A touch of chaos and violence.

It’s just a white room in the middle of nowhere, and it’s only him and me here.

Little monsters like you don’t deserve to come.” He pats my cheek twice. “Useful hole, though.” And then he shoves me aside as if I’m a sack of potatoes, opens the door, and leaves.

When he’s gone, I lose the part of myself that’s anchored by him. The air feels thinner without the feel of his skin against mine, and the quiet I usually enjoy with him is deafening without him.

I would chain you to me, if I could I would be the monster under your bed. The villain who bides his time, waiting for when you least expect it to strike If I had my way, Kiryusha, I would never let you go But I think . . . I think you’ve already gone. And I don’t know how to get you back.

The realization crashes into me harder than a hurricane. The reason I nearly lost my goddamn mind isn’t because I’m so obsessed with him that I can’t tolerate someone else having him. It’s because I was hurt, so deeply, thinking he never reciprocated the magnitude of the feelings I have for him.

...heroes represent success, the acquisition of true love, and a prosperous future, whereas villains embrace the more realistic and less glamorized version of our reality - a world in which not every problem can be solved with a sweep of a magic wand or true love's kiss." Whitney Atkinson - Glamorized Recovery: Expectation vs. Reality.

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.

On your knees.

And I got more furious at myself for wanting his texts. It’s not like we’re in a damn relationship or anything, so why would he check in?

red. My favorite color.

Stop looking at me with those eyes.” “What eyes?

It’s not about taking your life; it’s about wiping you out of mine.

Hurt you?” “You said you’d rip my heart out. It’s all yours, so do with it as you please, baby.

It was your asshole that was being fucked, though.

If she feeds you, she cares about you.

You shouldn’t throw stones when your house is made of glass.

You happen to be my favorite little monster.” “And you’re my favorite villain, baby.

But he’s still there, beneath my skin, while she’s beneath his.

I certainly have no damn clue how to have a relationship with a man. An older man.

It’s nothing serious, so don’t tell anyone.” My smile falls. Not serious? He was on the verge of committing murder just because I didn’t reply to him, and it’s nothing serious.

I want a kiss,” she demanded

You injected yourself in my bones and you’re flowing in my veins, my head, my soul. You’re in me. How can you not see that if you remove yourself from inside me, I’ll just wither and die?

I mean it, Kayde. If you do, there’ll be no me without you.” I lean closer, needing him closer. “There’s this void inside me. A black hole I lived with my entire life. I thought I’d filled it up once when I killed for the first time, but that high only lasted for a while. I’d always had this insatiable urge for more and more and more. But then you came into my life and filled me up. Not the void, me. So I mean it when I say you’re inside me. You tame my darkness, calm my chaos, and quiet the voices. I don’t only love you, but I’m physically unable to live without you. It hurts to even think about it.

Why must a young girl need a man to save her? Why can’t a princess fight for her own life, break her own curse? Why must it always be a prince? By Hades, I want to kill Prince Phillip on principle, just so we don’t have yet one more prince kissing some helpless sleeping girl, making her feel like she has to marry him out of gratitude.

I figured that out shortly after we took in Moka about a month ago—or Kayden did, minor details. The little demon only sleeps on top of me and likes me better than him anyway. He’s just the spare human according to the internet.

And yet the shadow that appears behind my lids has deep light-green eyes and messy blond hair. He’s wearing a little grin, taunting dimples creasing his cheeks, and I want to stab them.  To drink his fucking blood vampire style.

Happiness takes many forms. It can range from comfortably existing in silence while playing chess to watching Moka eat Jethro’s cables while he tries to wrestle her away. It’s listening to Kayden’s steady heartbeat when I fall asleep and knowing he’s here with me. It's how he smiles upon seeing me after a whole day of being apart, how he hugs and kisses me as if he can breathe only when I’m around. It’s hearing Rachel and Jina’s stories about a younger, mischievous, but incredibly smart Kayden and seeing his baby albums. I might have even made them give up a few pictures so I could frame and keep them in that shrine I have of him. Happiness is Kayden and Kayden is happiness. They’re one and the same in my mind.

I have no respect for you whatsoever, Professor.” “I’ll tell you this once, so listen carefully, Carson.” He stands taller, forcing me to crane my head back to look up at him. “I have zero tolerance for spoiled, rich little brats like you who believe they can rule the world through their daddies’ trust funds. If you don’t drop the attitude and watch your mouth, I will fuck it into submission. Are we clear?

I was, I knew full well, a creature composed of strange desires. They'd always been with me, these hungers. As a child I played villain in every game of 'capture the princess,' tying my pretty playmates up with jump ropes and spriting them away to my faux castle on the playground. I wrestled my friends to the ground in bursts of emotion, or punctuated kisses on the cheek with a sharp nip. It didn't help that I had absolutely no interest in pursuing companionship with boys in the same way I did girls, no matter how many limpid first dates I went on.

Your chaos soothes my calm, your darkness is a mirror of my own, and that beautiful soul of yours is a figment of mine and a torch that burns in the depths of my blackened heart. I didn’t know what love was before you, but I’m certain that’s what I feel for you, my little monster.

Yeah. One of us has to be a people person. Honestly, you’re lucky to have the Gareth Carson. Must’ve done so many good things in your past life.” “The elusive Gareth Carson no one can have is all mine?” “Uh-huh. You’ve seriously hit the jackpot.” “I have?” “Duh. You’re welcome, Professor.

Martha spoke again. “In case you’ve forgotten, here are the rules, Beast, laid out by all the sisters: You must love her and that love must be returned with true love’s kiss, before your twenty first birthday. She may use the mirror as you do, to see into the world beyond your kingdom, but she must never know the details of the curse or how it’s to be broken. You will notice she sees the castle and its enchantments differently than yourself. The most terrifying aspects of the curse are reserved for you.

You’d think the fairies would have thought of something more creative. Practically every princess in peril has been saved by Love’s First Kiss! For goodness’ sake, between witches and fairies, can’t we think of something more original? I’m weary of this. Why must a young girl need a man to save her? Why can’t a princess fight for her own life, break her own curse? Why must it always be a prince? By Hades, I want to kill Prince Phillip on principle, just so we don’t have yet one more prince kissing some helpless sleeping girl, making her feel like she has to marry him out of gratitude.

I want to confine your soul by my side," Wuhuan was particularly crazy the night after they got their Daoist couple mark. He kissed the peach blossom mark on the back of Song Qingshi's hand over and over again. He softly whispered the longing in this heart, "Qingshi, don't fall in love with anyone else. Don't be good to anyone else. In this life and the next life and the next life, only me...

God. I love his laughter, his smell, his voice, his face, his body, but mostly, I love his little gestures, how he knows things about me without me having to say anything, how he looks out after me, how he recognizes my uneven edges and smooths them with care. I love him. And I keep falling further in love every single day. I’m about to get on my knees and drink his cum dry when the doorbell rings.

Val turned, still naked, still impossibly beautiful. Only the gore spattered on his belly, chest, and arm, marred his perfection. He walked toward her and she couldn't help it. She backed away from him. He smiled. Sweetly. Like a boy. The dagger still in his left hand. And caught her arm with his right hand. "This is who I am, Séraphine. Naked, with blade and blood. I am vengeance. I am hate. I am sin personified. Never mistake me for the hero of this tale, for I am not and shall never be. I am the villain." And he laid his lips over hers and pushed his hot tongue into her mouth and kissed her until she couldn't breathe and it was only later that she found the bloodstains on her dress. Her lips had been sweet, like ripe figs, her mouth a cavern of delight. But her eyes- those dark inquisitor's eyes- had held only horror and disgust. Val sipped his China tea the next morning and gazed out the window. The sun shone on his garden, giving the illusion of warmth, though his empty chest was ice-cold. He could have explained to her that a razor-sharp blade was kinder than a hangman's noose. That death delivered in seconds with a few thrusts was preferable to a laughing, jabbering mob, gleeful at the jerking, agonizing execution. But those saint's eyes would've seen the hypocrisy.

He was crazy. An evil, psychopathic villain. But when he kissed me, it was like the entire world melted away—like everything was right for just once. Like when you step into your home after you’ve been gone a long time. The second the smell of home and comfort hits you, the tension in your body withers away. The feel of belonging and comfort cloak you like a warm blanket. That’s how it felt when Mendax touched me, when he looked at me with three different shades of light blue eyes. I saw—no felt—what I meant to him. He is the bad guy, I reminded myself for the trillionth time, but it didn’t matter. I craved him every bit as much as he seemed to be lost to me.

I've cursed a lot of people.' Jacks reeled her in as he spoke, slowly tugging Evangeline towards him and trapping her bloody hand so that it was behind him as he leaned in closer and whispered, 'They don't all become villains, Little Fox.' His lips brushed hers, taunting, teasing. 'Stop trying to distract me,' she murmured. 'I'll never stop trying to distract you,' Jacks playfully nipped her lower lip and then he kissed her, far less playfully. (Waterstones Exclusive Edition Alternate Ending).

You might think you’re the villain in my story, Lux, but what you don’t seem to realize is that I don’t care. Princess or Evil Queen, I want you standing by my side when the tale comes to an end. So I’m not walking away — I’m going to wear you down, until you’re ready — no, until you’re dying — to tell me what happened back then.” Another kiss landed on my lips, and I fought off a tremble of desire. “And Freckles?” My eyes flickered up to meet his searing gaze. “It’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

Okay, little demon, what’s your deal?” A loud meow answers him, and he sighs begrudgingly. “Oh, hell no. Also, Mom said milk isn’t good for cats.” He tries to push her away and she falls, but then she climbs back up on his T-shirt. “I guess a bit won’t hurt.” He pours a small amount of hot chocolate into his palm and lifts it toward her. She laps it up eagerly, her tiny pink tongue darting out. For a moment, Gareth looks…soft. His shoulders relax, and he carefully strokes her head, as if testing the waters. “You won’t scratch me, right?” I smile and disappear into the bedroom, answer some texts, especially from my nephew—while I ignore my brother’s—and then I change into PJ bottoms. When I finally join him again, Gareth is lying on his back on the sofa with the kitten curled up on his chest, purring loudly.

By the time we get to my place, he’s opted to carry all the bags, leaving me to deal with the cat. As soon as I open the carrier, she darts out, heading straight for the sofa. Gareth all but jumps behind me, dropping all the bags on the floor. “Motherfucking bitch!” I throw my head back and laugh. “It’s not that funny,” he grumbles, peeking out from behind me as the kitten hides under the sofa. But, really, I love how he’s holding on to my waist, even if it’s to use me as a shield, he’s touching me without trying to choke, knife, or tase me. Baby steps, right?

As a matter of fact I don’t care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite Labrador, Bob, goodbye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don’t see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something – and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books – camouflaged different ways of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains singlehanded.

Images of him biting and marking my flesh, making me come against his cock. Spitting cum in my mouth and forcing me to swallow. I’ve thought of killing him every time I’ve seen the dark purple hickeys all over my chest. I even considered just hiring an outsider to do it and then sending me the footage. But for some reason, that didn’t sound satisfying. Not as much as the fantasy of watching his blood spill on the ground.  Between my fingers. Beneath my feet. And I’d stand there, watching those silver eyes turn truly lifeless. If someone is going to kill Kayden Lockwood, it has to be me.

The Three-Decker "The three-volume novel is extinct." Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail. It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail; But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best— The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest. Fair held the breeze behind us—’twas warm with lovers’ prayers. We’d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs. They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest. By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook, Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed, And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest. We asked no social questions—we pumped no hidden shame— We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came: We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell. We weren’t exactly Yussufs, but—Zuleika didn’t tell. No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared, The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered. ’Twas fiddle in the forc’s’le—’twas garlands on the mast, For every one got married, and I went ashore at last. I left ’em all in couples a-kissing on the decks. I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques. In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed, I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! That route is barred to steamers: you’ll never lift again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain. They’re just beyond your skyline, howe’er so far you cruise In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws. Swing round your aching search-light—’twill show no haven’s peace. Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas! Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep’s unrest— And you aren’t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest! But when you’re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail, At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed, You’ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest. You’ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread; You’ll hear the long-drawn thunder ’neath her leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine! Hull down—hull down and under—she dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck. All’s well—all’s well aboard her—she’s left you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind. Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make? You’re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming’s sake? Well, tinker up your engines—you know your business best— She’s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!

Oh ho,' he says. 'My darling seneschal. Let us take a turn around the room.' He grabs me and pulls me toward the dance. He can barely stand. Three times he stumbles, and three times I have to hold most of his weight to keep him upright. 'Cardan.' I hiss. 'This is no meet behaviour for the High King.' He giggles at that. I think of how serious he was last night in his rooms and how far he seems from that person. 'Cardan,' I try again. 'You must not do this. I order you to pull yourself together. I command you to drink no more liquor and to attempt sobriety.' 'Yes, my sweet villain, my darling god. I will be as sober as a stone carving, just as soon as I can.' And with that, he kisses me on the mouth.

I do have a bad habit,” he says. “of falling in love. With regularity and to spectacular effect. You see, it never goes well.” I wonder if this conversation makes him think of our kiss, but then, I was the one who kissed him. He’d only kissed back. “As charming as you are, how can that be?” I say. He laughs again. “That’s what my sister Taryn always says. She tells me that I remind her of her late husband. Which makes some sense, since I would be his half brother. But it’s also alarming, because she’s the one who murdered him.” Much as when he spoke about Madoc, it’s strange how fond Oak can sound when he tells me a horrifying thing a member of his family has done. “Whom have you fallen in love with?” I ask. “Well, there was you,” the prince says. “When we were children.” “Me?” I ask incredulously. “You didn’t know?” He appears to be merry in the face of my astonishment. “Oh yes. Though you were a year my senior, and it was hopeless, I absolutely mooned over you. When you were gone from Court, I refused any food but tea and toast for a month.” I cannot help snorting over the sheer absurdity of his statement. He puts a hand to my heart. “Ah, and now you laugh. It is my curse to adore cruel women. He cannot expect me to believe he had real feelings. “Stop with your games.” “Very well,” he says. “Shall we go to the next? Her name was Lara, a mortal at the school I attended when I lived with my eldest sister and her girlfriend. Sometimes Lara and I would climb into the crook of one of the maple trees and share sandwiches. But she had a villainous friend, who implicated me in a piece of gossip—which resulted in Lara stabbing me with a lead pencil and breaking off our relationship.” “You do like cruel women,” I say. “Then there was Violet, a pixie. I wrote terrible poetry about how I adored her. Unfortunately, she adored duels and would get into trouble so that I would have to fight for her honor. And even more unfortunately, neither my sister nor my father bothered to teach me how to fight for show. I thought of the dead-eyed expression on his face before his bout with the ogre and Tiernan’s angry words. “That resulted in my accidentally killing a person she liked better than me.” “Oh,” I say. “That is three levels of unfortunate.” “Then there was Sibi, who wanted to run away from Court with me, but as soon as we went, hated it and wept until I took her home. And Loana, a mermaid, who found my lack of a tail unbearable but tried to drown me anyway, because she found it equally unbearable that I would ever love another.” The way he tells these stories makes me recall how he’s told me many painful things before. Some people laugh in the face of death. He laughed in the face of despair. “How old were you?” “Fifteen, with the mermaid,” he said. “And nearly three years later, I must surely be wiser.” “Surely,” I say, wondering if he was. Wondering if I wanted him to be.

With Nicasia by his side, Cardan drew others to him until he formed a malicious little foursome who prowled the isles of Elfhame looking for trouble. They unravelled precious tapestries and set fire to part of the Crooked Forest. They made their instructors at the palace school weep and made courtiers terrified to cross them. Valerian, who loved cruelty the way some Folk loved poetry. Locke, who had a whole empty house for them to run amok in, along with an endless appetite for merriment. Nicasia, whose contempt for the land made her eager to have all of Elfhame kiss her slipper. And Cardan, who modelled himself on his eldest brother and learned how to use his status to make Folk scrape and grovel and bow and beg, who delighted in being a villain. Villains were wonderful. They got to be cruel and selfish, to preen in front of mirrors and poison apples, and trap girls on mountains of glass. They indulged all their worst impulses, revenged themselves for the least offense, and took every last thing they wanted. And sure, they wound up in barrels studded with nails, or dancing in iron shoes heated by fire, not just dead, but disgraced and screaming. But before they got what was coming to them, they got to be the fairest in the land.

Then we’re kissing right there in front of everyone. And nothing else seems to matter. Certainly not etiquette, or what anyone else thinks. It’s only his lips on mine, the pressure gentle. It’s only us. And I can’t stop— Which is when Derrick arrives out of thin air and careens into my shoulder in a mess of wings and limbs. “Hellooooo! Don’t mind me, I’m just interrupting your brazen cuddle to steal the lady for a few minutes.” Oh, damnation, not now. I’m really regretting not giving Derrick that extra five minutes. “Derrick,” I say through clenched teeth. I step back from Kiaran and try to control the pixie’s wriggling body in my hair. “Not—” “My god.” Derrick collapses on my shoulder. “I am full of pie. I can barely even move my wings. I—” He squints over at Kiaran and smiles in delight. “Oh, hulloooooo, villainous wastrel!” Kiaran is clearly not impressed. “You’ve a bit of pastry on your jacket.” Derrick swipes at the morsel, snatches it, and eats it. “Was just saving a wee snack for later.” He giggles. For god’s sake. I look pleadingly at Kiaran. “Just . . . save that thought. Don’t go anywhere.” I’d like to resume the kissing. “I’ll be right back—” “Kiaraaaaaaaaaan.” Derrick giggles. “Or would you prefer I keep villainous wastrel? I never asked.” Kiaran arches an eyebrow. “I suppose that depends. Would you prefer pain in my arse?” Derrick bursts into laughter. “Arse! Aileana. He said arse.” “Hell,” I mutter. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” I don’t wait for Kiaran’s response. I take Derrick with me to the lift and don’t say anything until I reach the fourth floor. “Let me just say, if someone gave you honey, I’ll—” “No, no, no,” Derrick says, gliding off my shoulder. He now looks suspiciously lucid. “You said to save you after twenty-five minutes. So I did.” “I said to save me if I was around Daniel and in obvious distress.” Not when I’m kissing someone in obvious delight. “Firstly, I was the one in distress watching you kiss Kiaran because ughhhh.” Derrick wags a finger at me. “And secondly, you never said anything about distress, you said—” “Forget what I said.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you telling me that down there was all an act?” He grins. “I would have been perfect in the theater, wouldn’t you say?” “Good heavens,” I murmur. At least I don’t have to deal with a drunk pixie. “Let’s just check the wards, all right

She gives just enough hints about him to make you wonder why he became so villainous. And if he dies, I’ll never learnt the answer.” Oliver eyes her closely. “Perhaps he was born villainous.” “No one is born villainous.” “Oh?” he said with raised eyebrow. “So we’re all born good?” “Neither. We start as animals, with an animal’s needs and desires. It takes parents and teachers and other good examples to show us how to restrain those needs and desires, when necessary, for the greater good. But it’s still our choice whether to heed that education or to do as we please.” “For a woman who loves murder and mayhem, you’re quite the philosopher.” “I like to understand how things work. Why people behave as they do.” He digested that for a moment. “I happen to think that some of us, like Rockton, are born with a wicked bent.” She chose her words carefully. “That certainly provides Rockton with a convenient excuse for his behavior.” His features turned stony. “What do you mean?” “Being moral and disciplined is hard work. Being wicked requires no effort at all-one merely indulges every desire and impulse, no matter how hurtful or immoral. By claiming to be born wicked, Rockton ensures that he doesn’t have to struggle to be god. He can just protest that he can’t help himself.” “Perhaps he can’t,” he clipped out. “Or maybe he’s simply unwilling to fight his impulses. And I want to know the reason for that. That’s why I keep reading Minerva’s books.” Did Oliver actually believe he’d been born irredeemably wicked? How tragic! It lent a hopelessness to his life that helped to explain his mindless pursuit of pleasure. “I can tell you the reason for Rockton’s villainy.” Oliver rose to round the desk. Propping his hip on the edge near her, he reached out to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. A sweet shudder swept over her. Why must he have this effect on her? It simply wasn’t fair. “Oh?” she managed. “Rockton knows he can’t have everything he wants,” he said hoarsely, his hand drifting to her cheek. “He can’t have the heroine, for example. She would never tolerate his…wicked impulses. Yet he still wants her. And his wanting consumes him.” Her breath lodged in her throat. It had been days since he’d touched her, and she hadn’t forgotten what it was like for one minute. To have him this near, saying such things… She fought for control over her volatile emotions. “His wanting consumes him precisely because he can’t have her. If he thought he could, he wouldn’t want her after all.” “Not true.” His voice deepening, he stroked the line of her jaw with a tenderness that roused an ache in her chest. “Even Rockton recognizes when a woman is unlike any other. Her very goodness in the face of his villainy bewitches him. He thinks if he can just possess that goodness, then the dark cloud lying on his soul will lift, and he’ll have something other than villainy to sustain him.” “Then he’s mistaken.” Her pulse trebled as his finger swept the hollow of her throat. “The only person who can lift the dark cloud on his soul is himself.” He paused in his caress. “So he’s doomed, then?” “No!” Her gaze flew to his. “No one is doomed, and certainly not Rockton. There’s still hope for him. There is always hope.” His eyes burned with a feverish light, and before she could look away, he bent to kiss her. It was soft, tender…delicious. Someone moaned, she wasn’t sure who. All she knew was that his mouth was on hers again, molding it, tasting it, making her hungry in the way that only he seemed able to do. “Maria…” he breathed. Seizing her by the arms, he drew her up into his embrace. “My God, I’ve thought of nothing but you since that day in the carriage.

You don’t have to sleep on the floor. I know it’s uncomfortable.” “I think I owe you more than a night on the floor.” “You broke your arm tonight. It’ll be stiff, even if you healed it. I don’t want my ally wounded.” She knew, after all the ways she’d flirted with him before, that any invitation could be misconstrued. Especially in a bed with little space between them, entirely in the dark. But there was no misconstruing the way her stomach somersaulted when she felt the mattress shift as he sat down. When he lay beside her and warmth like fire spread through her from her head to her toes. Nothing good would come of this. This was Alistair Lowe, she reminded herself. The one everyone had declared her greatest rival. The boy her mother had warned her about. After they’d slain all the other champions—her ex-best friend among them—it would only be the two of them left. Maybe that would be months from now. Maybe it would be days. But that was what this alliance led up to. Not a kiss stolen in the dark, or a priceless gift given without being asked. A duel. Sobered, Isobel turned so her back was to him. Several minutes had passed, and Alistair hadn’t moved. She wasn’t even sure if he was still awake. “Tell me a monster story,” she whispered. He stirred, then drowsily murmured, “Have you ever heard of a nightcreeper?” “I haven’t.” “They’re drawn to places with complete darkness because their bodies are made of shadow.” Isobel noted the complete darkness around them and slid deeper beneath the blankets. “They can see in the darkness no better than you can, but their eyes are burned away by the faintest light. That’s what they search for—eyes. New ones that don’t scorch in the daylight, that they pluck out and use to replace their own. So they can finally feast outside.” Isobel’s dread receded, her fears replaced by make-believe ones. When she did fall asleep, she didn’t dream of Briony’s demise. She didn’t dream of how it would feel to kiss Alistair or to curse him. She dreamed of fears that, for once, felt surmountable.