Page 44 of The Villain We Tempt

I’m still grinning, halfway across the room, when the door closes behind me with a heavy click as it locks.

My whole body stills as an icy sensation drags down my spine, even before I hear the modulated voice.

“Well, well, well. I was wondering when you’d finally get here,little villain.”

7

GALINA

Oh,fuck.

At first, I can’t even move, just freeze mid-step, one foot extended toward the tripod like a weirdo.

My heart thuds in my chest as a chilling sensation finger-walks up every bump of my spine.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware that there’s just one door to this place. And judging by the direction of his modulated voice, he’s standing right in front of it.

I’m trapped.

“You can put your foot down,” the voice rumbles robotically. “This isn’t Red Light, Green Light inSquid Game. You’re allowed to move.”

Heat floods my face as I lower my foot.

I was wondering when you’d finally get here.

Just as it’s all falling horribly into place, the scratchy voice comes again.

“Quite the view of the harbor and The Seven Bells from that window, isn’t it?”

Fuck me.

The slipped backdrop was no accident.

This whole thing was a trap, and I walked right into it.

“Look at me, Galina.”

Slowly, my feet turn me around, until I’m facing him.

Traitorous heat pools in my core.

The fucker’s shirtless.

Ofcoursehe’s shirtless.

Black jeans, black boots, that, frankly,really niceblack mask with the spray-paint looking white crown emblazoned across it…

And that’s it.

The moon glinting through that little strip of exposed window sends stark shadows and ghostly white light across the hard ridges and grooves of his muscles and swirling tattoos. My eyes slowly drag up every inch of him, my insides knotting.

People talk all the time about meeting famous actors and being surprised when they’re not as tall as they appear to be in their movies.

It’s the opposite with The Ghost Prince.

In real life, he seems to betoweringon his side of the small room. His broad, muscled shoulders coil as he rolls his shoulders. I drink in the flat planes of his chest, the—fuck me—eight-packof his abs, the twin deep channels of his hip flexors. His bulging biceps and veined forearms.

My pulse quickens. I’m suddenlyveryaware that I don’t know agoddamn thingabout this man.