Page 234 of The Villain We Tempt

Sweet. Merciful. God.

I was trying to film new Velvet Villainess content earlier because I’ve gone almost two full weeks without posting anything. I didn’t end up shooting because I’m a fucking mess right now, but Ireallythought I’d put everything back into my closet before calling my dad.

He’s laughing as I groan, willing myself to turn into water vapor so I can just disperse into the atmosphere.

“Those—I mean—it’s not?—”

“Peanut, it’sme,” he chuckles. “Not Papa.” He cocks a brow at me. “Justbe fucking safe, and respected, yes?”

I nod, my face still throbbing.

“Hey, Dad?” I mumble, smiling awkwardly. “Thank you.”

He winks. “Any time. I love you so much, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

When we hang up, I sink into the bed, thinking.

Do you, daughter of mine, trust yourself? Enough to take off whatever mask you’re still wearing with this guy and show him the real you?

The problem is, I don’t know.

Not yet.

39

LOCHLAN

“How’s school, boy-o?”

I shake Uncle Cillian’s hand firmly and bring him in for a hug.

“Oh, fine,” I shrug as we plop down on neighboring barstools.

I’m slightly hungover, after Achilles, Selene, and I were all commiserating last night: Achilles was upset about Yelena being on the outs with him, I avoided talking about Galina, and Selene's…well, who knows what's going with her and Jude Nikolayev. Or possibly Kirill Tsarenko. Or both? Fuck, that’s more details about her sex life than I need.

In any case, after Achilles took off, Selene and I got into a bottle of vodka, which was a questionable move in hindsight, given our moods.

I still have no idea where the hell Achilles disappeared to. But I found his hoodie in the kitchen when I got up, reeking of diesel fumes and smoke, and the Hawthorne Hollow police discovered a burned-out boat in the harbor this morning, so…

Cillian chuckles. “Meaning you’re still the smartest fucker in the place, but keep tanking a test here and there to make sure Achilles is top of the class?”

I smile and lift a shoulder. “What? I don’t like being in the spotlight.”

Cillian roars out a laugh. “Such a crock ofshite.”

The Irish lilt in my uncle’s…okay, great-uncle’s…voice gets the bartender's attention.

“Jameson, neat,” Cillian says.

When the guy glances at me, I nod. “Same, thanks.”

The Seven Bells is quiet. Then again, it’s two in the afternoon.

Cillian texted me a few hours ago that he’d be driving past Hawthorne Hollow on his way up to Boston for some business, soobviouslyI’m taking the opportunity to grab a drink with him, because he’s the best.

He was the head of the Kildare family for years before my dad took over. He’s retired now, but still lets himself get pulled into business here and there.