Page 7 of The Villain We Tempt

His tattooed hands are casually resting on the armrests of the chair, one of them drumming an easy “tap-tap” rhythm.

Shadows etch deeply across the grooved and chiseled muscles of his bare, tattooed torso and arms.

But it's all secondary to the face that looks right into my soul, even though I can’t see his eyes.

The face covered entirely by a black tactical mask with a white crown painted across it.

Every nerve ending in my body ignites. Every synapse fires.

And yet, I can’t move.

It's him.

The Ghost Prince laughs, the sound jangling roughly through his voice modulator and sending heat rippling through me.

“Don’t stop now, little villain,” he says mechanically. “That was just starting to get good.”

2

GALINA

For a second,or a minute, or an hour, or however long I stand there staring at him, it's as if time stops.

Like my reality is frozen and my brain refuses to believe what I’m seeing.

The Ghost Prince, the MaskTok content creator with almost as many followers as I have, ishere.

And he’s clearlybeenhere the whole time.

Watching me.

Me getting undressed. Me dancing. Me turning into…

Oh God.

With a choked sound catching in my throat, I whirl away, my hand coming up to cover the side of my face as my eyes dart to the bag containing my mask.

A deep, dark, modulated laugh rumbles through the darkness.

“A little late for obscuring identities, don’t you think,Galina?”

The shock of seeing him was terrifying.

The second shock, realizing I wasn’t wearing my mask, was jolting.

But the feeling that spreads through me when he saysmy nameis chilling. So chilling that I just stand there frozen, still half turned away from him with my hand to the side of my face and my pulse whining in my ears.

…Until a draft teasingly wraps itself around my torso, and I’m reminded thatI’m not wearing a top.

I dart for the bag with my schoolgirl gear, but that slightly robotic voice, like the one they use for the kidnapper in a movie, crackles through the darkness.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

That voice—or maybe the man behind it, or the raw, terrifying powerin it—stops me cold.

A shiver ripples up my spine. I fold my arms over my chest before I slowly, haltingly, glance over my shoulder at him.

“It’s also a little late for modesty.”