Page 59 of The Villain We Tempt

Lochlan is what a “walking red flag” looks like in thereal world, without the veneer of fiction.

And just because why not, life has a way of fucking with you even more by making unrepentant gaping assholes like Lochlanludicrouslyattractive.

It would beso easyto ignore a prick like my power-tripping TA. But not when he looks like, well,that.

I mean, are you fucking kidding me?

Smug little shit or not, Lochlan Kildare isgorgeous.

I know I should loathe him for being yet another arrogant, cocky, smug, privileged jock. Butgood lord.

On the other side of the athletic field, a distractingly shirtless Lochlan is running drills with Achilles Drakos and Drago Krylov. Achilles, the school’s star quarterback, is throwing passes to Lochlan, the star wide receiver, whileDrago, the—wait for it—stardefensemen of both the footballandhockey teams tries to intercept the ball or tackle him or whatever you do in football to mess up a play.

I feel my cheeks heat as my eyes stage a coup and ignore my protests as they track a shirtless, insanely hot Lochlan across the field.

Yeah, “loathe” is a hard sell when the smug prick is six foot three of pure, chiseled, lean muscle, with criminally bright blue eyes and dark blond hair that isjustunkempt enough.

And tattoos.

And muscles.

And that grin.

Did I mention the muscles?

Ugh.

“You’re drooling.”

I startle, whirling with pink cheeks toward Ari.

“I most certainly am not.”

She gives me a “yeah, whatever,” look and goes back to eyeing the athletic field from our perch up in the bleachers.

“Remind me what we’re doing here again?” I groan, fanning myself.

It’s unusually warm for being fall in New England. Unlike the ridiculously hot asshole running plays on the other side of the field, I amnottopless, but the longer I sit here sweating into my school uniform, the more I’m considering it.

Arinna sighs. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Hey, if you want to ogle shirtless guys in peace, you just let me know, girl.”

I'm kidding when I ask why we're here. Ari, quiet little overachiever that she is, is minoring in fine arts, and has a “studies in moving figures” life drawing class. She’s getting some practice in by rapid-fire sketching the various athletes out on the field, andthat'swhy we’re sweating our asses off in the bleachers.

Ari is afantasticartist. I mean, genuinely super talented. But I do crack up whenever I think of my slightly asexual friend with her low-key “I don’t care if men are interested in me” attitude sitting through the nude figure studies classes that I know are part of the curriculum.

The roar of an engine startles us and jerks our attention to the gate entrance to the athletic fields. A black and chrome motorcycle backfires loudly as the rider walks it onto the field, kicks down the stand, and kills the engine.

I shiver.

I grew up in the bratva world, and Adrik Volkovstillfreaks me out.

I watch the tall, muscular, dark-haired bratva heir tug off his helmet and swing his leg over his bike as he dismounts. He hangs the helmet on one of his handlebars, then shrugs off first his black leather jacket, then his black t-shirt, revealing an insanely muscular frame covered in swirling tattoos.

Um, okay?

I’m confused for a second, but then someone in the boxing club nods and waves him over.