Page 101 of The Villain We Tempt

Do the tattoos on their forearms match what I saw rippling on his skin while his fingers wrapped my hair in a fist as my mouth slid down his cock?

Unfortunately, half the guys at Knightsblood are heavily tattooed. I'll be sitting alone in the library, two hours into a reading I've absorbed none of, and some rando will sit down and open a book a few tables away.

…And I'll look, and I'llwonder.

Isthishim? Am I within ten feet of the man who threw me down across a bed anddevouredmy pussy, right before I pepper sprayed him in the face?

It's not healthy. I've told myself as much almost as many times as I've watched the Ghost Prince’s last video.

It doesn’t help.

The other day, I happened to pass the downrightterrifyingAdrik Volkov, and almost had a panic attack wondering ifhewas the one behind the Ghost Prince mask.

A day or so later, Arianna, Yelena, and I were leaving the gym and walked by the athletic fields while the Privateers were practicing shirtless…including a very heavily inked Drago Kyrolv, and my festering asshole of a TA, Lochlan.

Lochlan, the insufferable dick on a power trip who seems to derive pleasure from putting me on the spot.

Whose outrageous attractiveness is something I find myself consciously and actively trying to ignore.

Who I’m pretty sure I might actuallyhate, and I don’t hate anyone.

Like The Ghost Prince, he's tall and incredibly built, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, and sleeve tattoos snaking up both arms. He appears to be the poster boy for smug, cocky jock, until you get a glimpse of predatory venom in his eyes. But his hands look they could hold a knife, or a fistful of your hair as he…

I roll my eyes.

Blond, pretty-boy jock Lochlan Kildareis notmy masked stalker. For one thing, he doesn't have enough ink. Case closed.

Thank God.

Eventually, Ari finishes with her study group and stops by Wren’s room. We're all about to dive into a gloriously trashymarathon ofReal Housewives of Nashvillewhen Arianna puts on her mom hat and reminds me that I have a quiz in my developmental psych class in a few days.

Fuck. I left my course book and notes in Roche Lecture Hall earlier today.

With a groan, I say goodnight to my friends and the Nashville housewives and head out.

I know the Knightsblood campus is completely safe. But the news has cycled back recently to the Jane Doe body that was found outside town earlier this summer, and the possibility of it being a murder, despite no real evidence yet. They’ve even given the potential murderer a name: the Shoreline Killer.

It’s easy to say you don’t buy tabloid crap like that. But it gets a little harder when it’s eleven at night and you’re walking alone into a dark academic building.

I keep my eyes peeled as I quickly walk down the shadow-bathed hallways of the nineteenth century building. There are four different classrooms in Roche Lecture Hall, and I make my way to Lecture Hall B, where I had Developmental Psych earlier today.

A shiver scrapes down my spine when the old, heavy doors squeal on their hinges. I quickly cross the area with the lectern, professor's desk and slate chalkboard, and scamper up the aisle of the amphitheater-style seating.

I sigh in relief when I spot my textbook and notes exactly where I left them, halfway across the seventh row. I snag them both and clutch them to my chest as I turn and quickly jog down the stairs and back to the door.

My pulse jumps when I try to leave.

The hinges don’t squeak this time.

…Because the double doors are nowzip-tied shut.

A cold feeling twists in my chest as dark venom coils around my middle.

I suddenly feel trapped. Hunted.

But most of all?

I feelwatched.