Page 8 of The Villain We Tempt

My throat bobs, my heart hammering in my chest as my lungs fill and empty at a dizzying pace.

“Look at me, little villain.”

Fuck, that voice. It’s a weird cross between terrifying and sexual. A midpoint between a horror movie and a fantasy. It’s grating and chilling, but at the same time sends little ripples and flickers dancing over my skin and coiling in my core.

“Galina.”

Hearing my name through that modulator again sends a spike of adrenaline jolting through me.

“I saidlook at me.”

My throat works, my breath coming shakily through what feels like a noose round my neck.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

A whining alarm hums in my ears, my pulse thudding beneath the surface of my skin as I slowly turn to face him, still tightly hugging my chest.

“Good girl.”

Jesus.

I’ve heard him say it dozens of times before. Maybe even a hundred. Because I don’t just "know of" The Ghost Prince.

I watch his videos. Religiously.

I consume alotof MaskTok content, and honestly, it really is usually for market research or just to make sure I’m staying on top of the latest trends.

But watching him?

Him I’ve watchedfarmore often than anyone else. And not for “market research”.

So yes, I’ve heard him say those words before. But the second I hear them in the darkness of the library, I realize there is avastdifference between hearing them in a social media video, directed at almost a million followers, and hearing them in person, directed solely atme.

Good girl.

Why does that make my core tighten and my knees shake?

What the FUCK is wrong with you?

Well, that's easy.

MaskTok is what’s wrong with me. Because I’ve been living this double life where I spend half my time immersed in this shit.Creatingit, even.

Normalizing it, and indulging infartoo many dark romance books. There is no way, in any reality, where this situation should do anything but terrify me.

Itdefinitelyshouldn’t make my thighs clench together like this.

I glance to the side, my eyes landing again on the small bag with my shirt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

His voice sends another heady mix of fear rippling down my spine and heat pooling in my core as I drag my gaze back to him. The Ghost Prince hasn’t moved. He’s still sprawled casually in that chair, a shirtless, dangerous predator.

I glance back at my bag and take a step toward it.

“Galina.”

I stop and glance at him again. He’s holding his phone up in one of those heavily tattooed hands that I’ve seen doing a hundred different embarrassingly tantalizing things.