Chapter 4
EMBER
I stare at the video. My laptop glows, my heart pounding when I click start. This one is…different.
The video begins with a blurry view of a man’s face on a video call. He’s sitting in a cluttered room, his face cast in shadow but the terrified whites of his eyes staring at the screen. His voice quivers.
“I—I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t?—”
“ Louder. Don’t fucking stop until you sound like you mean it and you’re not just afraid of me tracking you down and beating your ass.” Oh my god. It’s…it’s his voice.
The man flinches, looking anywhere but at the camera. “I’m—I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry I harassed her.”
My masked man’s voice is sharper, pressing. “Who?”
“Dream Mafia Queen,” he says in a rush of words. “I’m sorry.”
I stare, horror-stricken and somehow…warm with pleasure. He… did this… for me? It’s like the online version of cornering my schoolyard bully with a fist under his nose.
“Good. I’ll let that pass. Now delete the comments and delete your account. Everything.”
He nods frantically, his fingers scrambling over the keyboard. I scroll back to my comments as fast as my fingers can move and see every one of the hateful comments on my posts are gone.
My hands shake, my breath coming in shallow gasps. He did this online. He can’t threaten someone like this, he’ll get?—
Oh. Wait.
That’s when I note that this video is only for my eyes.
I stare and blink, shaking my head. What has he done?
I put my phone down, my emotions all over the place.
This…this crosses a line, he has to know that. I’m shaking my head in disbelief, still trying to process how I feel about this, when my DM’s ping.
Bratvabloodline
He won’t bother you again.
I shut the app and stare at my wall.
I’ve never had anyone defend me before. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I can’t?—
I really need to get my head in the game.
The gym is my church. This is where I worship.
I need to get my sweat on.
I toss on my gear and head to the gym, where I can control chaos and channel it into something tangible.
The weights don’t lie. The pull-up bar doesn’t judge. In here, I’m strong.
Untouchable.
I love plugging in my headphones, cranking my music, and zoning out. It’s just me versus me.
It feels good. It feels right.
And I’m finally getting over the mixed emotions from the apology. So the prickling awareness at the back of my neck? It pisses me off.
At first, I ignore it. There are always eyes at the gym, fleeting glances I brush off like sweat on my forehead. But this? This feels different. It’s heavier. More deliberate.
For fuck’s sake.
Who’s staring at me? Yes, I have a fine ass—thanks to endless squats and hip thrusts—but it’s my ass, and I don’t appreciate someone raking their unwanted gaze over it.
I drop from the pull-up bar like a cat, landing lightly on my feet with a soft thud. I turn toward the source of that invasive gaze, already bristling with annoyance.
I’m not wrong.
But I’m also completely unprepared.
He’s leaning casually against the dumbbell rack, arms folded across his chest, a cocky smirk curving his lips. He’s tall—ridiculously tall—with a face my grandma would’ve called “devil-may-care.” His body? Built like he spends his life in places like this, all broad shoulders and carved muscles.
But it’s not just the muscles. Not even the height. It’s the way he looks at me—sharp, knowing, like he’s already two steps ahead. Like he knows me.
Wait… maybe he does. He looks oddly familiar. Do I know him from somewhere?
Still, he shouldn’t be looking at me like that, like he—no, my romance conditioning is getting ahead of me again.
“Is there something you need?” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.
His smirk deepens, his cheek dimpling just enough to make me furious. And yeah, fine, he’s hot. Too hot. And by the way he carries himself, he knows it.
“You’re cheating,” he says, his tone maddeningly smooth.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Your hands,” he says, gesturing lazily toward the pull-up bar. “They’re too close. It makes it easier.”
That voice…
No. It can’t be.
I roll my neck with exaggerated patience. “Oh, really? So, you’ve been watching me long enough to critique my form?” I narrow my eyes at him, the annoyance simmering into something sharper. “And how’s my ass? Get a good look at that, too?”
The words are out before I can stop them.
“I haven’t, actually,” he says, pushing off the rack with an infuriatingly casual flex that makes every damn muscle in his body stand out. I swallow hard, hating myself for noticing. “But if you want to turn around…” He twirls his finger in the air, smirking like he owns the world.
“I’ll turn around,” I say sweetly, flipping him off instead. Then I face him fully, which—great—gives him a perfect view of my chest. My stupid, flimsy workout top does nothing to hide the outline of my nipples.
His eyes flick down for a fraction of a second, just enough to make me want to throw a dumbbell at him. His smirk grows, and he shakes his head like I’ve just confirmed everything he already assumed.
“Figures you’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, sighing like he’s already resigned himself to some cosmic truth. “Figures I love a woman with a mouth on her.”
And I hate how much that makes me want to smile.
“Are you going to do a real set, or are you done already?”
My lips part in disbelief. “Excuse me?” I repeat.
He gestures lazily to the pull-up bar, his smirk widening. That isn’t just one dimple, but two. The rugged appeal of this man is hard to resist—scruff on his jaw, and even though he wore a long-sleeve shirt, I could see the outline of strong muscles beneath the fabric. His voice is smooth and deep and does all sorts of things to my body.
“I thought with the way you were doing those, you were maybe pacing yourself.”
Pacing myself?
I press my lips together. If he’s trying to get a rise out of me… it’s working.
“So you’re the resident expert here? Funny, you don’t have a badge, and I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.”
When he takes another step closer, my first thought is… god he’s tall. Intimidatingly tall. But his presence feels… predatory, but in a way that makes me want more.
I really, really need to stop spending every waking hour reading dark romance.
“Not an expert,” he says with a shrug. “I know my way around a pull-up bar though. And you look like a woman who likes to challenge herself.” He winks, and my belly does a flip.
I like to challenge myself, alright. Right now, I want to challenge myself to grow the fuck up and get out of here before I let Mr. Flirt get to me.
I tilt my head. Couldn’t hurt to get a little view, could it?
“Prove it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He steps under the bar, jumps, and grasps it with practiced ease. His muscles flex as he hoists himself up, slow and deliberate, his form infuriatingly perfect. Each movement is controlled and smooth, like an Olympic gymnast’s. By the time he hits fifteen, my jaw’s tight.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
He drops down, rolling his shoulders as he faces me. “We should have a contest. I’d love to see you try to overpower me.”
I snort. “There’s no contest. You’re predisposed for greater upper body strength.” I jerk my chin over to the leg machines. “Though I could crush your skull with my thighs.”
His gaze grows predatory as it travels down the length of my body. “If that’s a threat, I can live with it. If it’s a promise…”
The thought of his head between my legs makes my cheeks heat instantly.
I should be furious at the audacity, but honestly… I walked right into that.
“Ladies first,” he says, stepping back with a smirk.
I grab the bar again, ignoring the way my palms are slick with sweat. My muscles protest, but I push through, matching his pace with stubborn determination. I feel his eyes on me—heavy, like a weight of their own. They trace the line of my arms, linger on my shoulders, and sweep down the curve of my back.
By the time I hit ten, my body is screaming at me to stop, but I don’t give in. Not with him watching. I drop to the ground, landing lightly despite the burn in my legs, and turn to face him, a little out of breath. “Your turn,” I say, tilting my chin up in challenge.
He steps up, his grin widening as his eyes lock on mine. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, a spark that feels electric. “Try not to be too disappointed,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. It sends an unexpected shiver racing down my spine.
He grabs the bar with a casual confidence that makes me grit my teeth. His movements are fast but controlled, playful in a way that feels infuriatingly deliberate. By the time he hits thirteen, he slows down, lets go with his right hand and drags out the last pull with his left like he’s savoring the moment. When he finally drops to the ground, he’s barely winded, wiping his hands on his shorts with maddening ease.
“I could’ve gone higher,” he says, his voice dripping with smugness. “But I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
I laugh, sharp and short, masking the heat rising in my chest. “Oh, trust me. You didn’t.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the gym disappears. The hum of machines fades, the clinking weights vanish. It’s just him, his gaze sweeping over me, staying a fraction too long on my lips. My pulse drums in my ears, louder than it should be.
I hop up and once more… crash out at twelve. It’s hard as fuck, ugh.
Then the clang of weights in the distance cuts through the spell. He steps back, his lips curling up like he knows exactly what he’s done.
“Not bad,” he says, his tone full of teasing arrogance. “For a beginner.”
I scoff, crossing my arms. “Beginner? You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
His grin deepens, and his eyes spark with something wicked. “I’ve got a lot of things,” he says, his voice dipping into something that makes my breath hitch. “See you around, beautiful.”
And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I’m not sure if I want to roll my eyes or chase after him.
Something about him feels dangerous. Familiar, even…
Where the hell is my head at? It’s like I’ve met two men straight out of my books these days, and I need to focus back on reality.
My phone pings, vibrating on the floor next to my water bottle. I freeze mid-reach, unsure why the sudden sound sends a prickle of unease crawling up my spine. It’s just a notification, another dopamine hit waiting to be claimed. But something stops me, a stubborn refusal to let my curiosity win.
I count to ten before finally checking, keeping my breathing steady. It’s probably just another?—
The sight of the name on the screen punches the air from my lungs. The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the ground, and I bite back a scream that threatens to claw its way out of my throat.
No. Not now. Not here.
Shawn
Hey, little sis. Back in town. Want to grab a drink?
Back in town.
Back in town.
The message is short. Innocent, even. But from him, it’s a bombshell, a ghost I’ve spent years running from finally catching up to me. The stepbrother who turned my childhood into a nightmare is back, and suddenly, I’m a trembling little girl again.
I wish I hadn’t read it. I don’t want to remember.
I force the phone into my pocket like that will bury the past along with it. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye—steady, fiery, and strong. I repeat the lie in my head like a mantra: You’re not her anymore. You’re not weak. You’re not helpless.
But the trembling in my hands says otherwise.
On autopilot, I head back to my apartment.
I have to get out of here. It’s hard leaving a place that’s familiar, that’s home, and venturing into the wide world of newness and unfamiliarity.
But my job can be anywhere now. Well, relatively speaking. And now that my influencer gig’s taking off…
I grab a book from my nightstand, clinging to its weight like a lifeline. Tonight, I’ll lose myself in a fantasy—because that’s all I can afford to trust. A world where women like me can find safety in surrender, even if it’s to someone dark, dangerous, and entirely unreal.
I can still see his predatory grin. I can still feel the way he held me in his clutches, terrified and cowering…
I whisper a quiet plea to the universe: Don’t let him drag me back there.
I can’t.
Before I can help myself, I check my messages. My heart thumps.
He tagged me in another video.
I scrutinize every detail. I can’t help it. I’m looking for a clue, something,…but there’s nothing.
Again, I don’t comment and hours later, my phone’s on silent.
I’m being good. Sensible. Diligent.
I’m tucked under a blanket, the heft of a new book in the palm of my hand. My huge mug of hot cocoa sits beside me, the fragrance lifting heavenward and warming the interior of my teeny, tiny, cramped apartment.
I left twinkling white fairy lights around the window after Christmas because I liked how they looked. I’ve spent every last penny building this book sanctuary in my shitty little apartment, and now it’s time to do what I love best—escape into my fantasy world.
Three chapters in, I’m drumming my fingers on the back of the book, waiting for things to pick up. I’m an impatient reader. I don’t like slow-moving plots or info dumping. I want action, and I want it now. Yes, I get that she’s a school teacher with dumb luck and a shitty past. Yes, I get that he’s a single dad in need of a nanny. They should be kissing by now.
Frowning, I put my book in my lap and wonder if there’s something wrong with me. I haven’t been able to get into a good book in weeks, and I need to. I have videos to post, goddammit.
I sip the tepid dregs of my cocoa and heave a sigh when I glance at my phone. My skin prickles the same way it did when Mr. Hottie ogled my ass at the gym.
I know what my real problem is though. I want another look at hot Mr. Fake Mafia, the one who’s been posting thirst traps and tagging me mercilessly. I have to stay focused though; I want to escape in my fantasy world—but wait.
Isn’t my online presence my fantasy world? There, where I have friends who share the same passion for romance and happily ever after, and where we can collectively drool over the mafia bad boys and tattooed heartthrobs, like modern-day heroines of Regency novels and their dashing scoundrels.
I’ll take one little break. Just a quickie.
I open the app on my phone and stare at the unending list of notifications. I’ve starred one, though, and his are at the top of the list. The little triangle on the top of the notifications that indicates my private messages.
I haven’t responded to his videos since yesterday.
Bratvabloodline
You ghosting me, kitten?
I roll my eyes even as heat rises in my chest I try to ignore.
I can’t help myself and post a comment.
Ghosting you? That would require a relationship, methinks.
Bratvabloodline
Touché. It’s been twenty-four hours since you responded to me and your last message said brB
I was unaware you were counting. I have a day job, you know. Sadly, as fun as reading romance books and posting videos is, it’s not the most reliable source of income.
Bratvabloodline
Of course. Understood. But the next time you say, ‘be right back,’ I expect you to be right back
Oh does he?
My pulse spikes. I can imagine those words in his dark voice, touched with that accent… masked up and tatted, those muscles flexing while he grabs my chin and makes me look him in the eyes.
My hands shake when I reply.
Meh
Bratvabloodline
Ah. The bratty type.
Listen, buddy. I know your type. Dark, broody anti-hero with a superiority complex posing with his arsenal of weapons about power. I’ve read your whole vibe on every bookshelf in America. And while that’s all fun and games for fantasy, this is the real world here, not one built on happily ever afters
Bratvabloodline
You have a lot of opinions about me for someone who doesn’t know me, little queen
Why do my cheeks heat at that? I swallow hard and roll my eyes again.
Aww. You’re like a mafia fangirl’s dream come to life. But real? Nah. You’re all smoke and mirrors
Bratvabloodline
And yet, you haven’t tested that theory, have you? You haven’t blocked me either
The breath catches in my throat.
I swallow.
You must be bored. You really have nothing better to do than try to get my attention?
Bratvabloodline
You have no idea the lengths I’d go for you
I swallow hard and bite my lip.
Maybe I think this whole shtick is kinda cute
I wait for his response. I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I wonder?—
A quick notification pops up:
@bratvabloodline has posted a new video.
I click it like my next breath hinges on watching it. The clip is short but… intoxicating. He’s damn good at this.
Bathed in shadows, the gleam of steel catches the light as he assembles a weapon with precision. His movements are fluid and sure, every shift of muscle deliberate. I watch, mesmerized, as his large, powerful hands move with such brutal efficiency. It’s clear: he’s a master at this.
Uuugh. What else would he do with those hands?
The faint hum of Russian music fills the background, setting a mood that’s both primal and sophisticated. Though his face is masked, his eyes burn with an intensity I can’t help but be drawn to. He’s smirking. I know he is.
I watch, unable to look away, as the camera lingers on the veins running along his muscled, tattooed forearms, sleeves rolled up to show the curve of muscle. I imagine what it would be like being pinned beneath those arms, helpless to move his weight off of me…
His movements are deliberate, sensual, as he snaps pieces into place. I get it…this is anything but cute.
God, he’s playing with fire. He’ll get banned so damn fast for this.
A knife flashes next—a deadly contrast to the smooth lines of the gun—its edge catching the dim light. He lazily twirls it between his fingers like a baton before he fists the handle and slams it, blade first, into the table. The camera pans up slowly, where the mask has gone slightly askew—I catch a glimpse of a stubbled jaw, tilted just enough.
Finally, he leans into the light and strokes the stubble on his jaw.
The video ends with him running his thumb over the edge of the knife and glancing straight at the lens.
Intimate.
Predatory.
He’s looking at… me.
The screen fades to black, leaving only one caption.
Still think this is cute, @dreammafiaqueen?
Oh my god.
I stare . I gulp. Thank fuck he can’t see me right now because I’m incapable of rational thought or speaking intelligible English.
This is better than any book I’ve ever read, and I’m not the only one who notices. The post already has hundreds of likes and as many comments. I read them with interest.
Plot Shmot. Who needs plot when we have THIS?
Alexa, play ‘Toxic’ on repeat
He’s giving me morally gray vibes and I’m…morally compromised.
Happily ever afters are overrated, girls. I don’t need an HEA. I just need HIM. Preferably on top of me.
Roses are red, violets are blue, a five-finger necklace if the giver is you
Wait, WAIT. Do they know each other in real life?? @dreammafiaqueen hasn’t said anything. GIRL!?
Uh oh.
I click back to my messages, my heart hammering.
You, sir, are ridiculous.
Bratvabloodline
Sir. That’s a start. Good girl.
That shouldn’t make me all kinds of hot and bothered. It shouldn’t.
You’re making a mockery of me.
Bratvabloodline
I’m not.
Really? What’s next, a moody black-and-white photo of you in a trench coat in a dark alley? Puh-lease.
Bratvabloodline
I don’t need props to prove a point.
Yet you’re parading props all over social media as if begging to get banned
Bratvabloodline
Not props. Tools.
You think you’re scary?
Bratvabloodline
Little queen, you wouldn’t last five seconds if I really wanted to make you beg.
The room feels hotter suddenly, the air too thick. I should laugh this off, but… my thighs clench involuntarily.
You’re all big talk for someone hiding behind a screen
His response is immediate.
Bratvabloodline
What if I weren’t? What if none of these were props and I wasn’t hiding?
This stops me cold.
The image of him stepping out of the shadows, commanding the space around him, is so vivid it makes me shiver.
God help me. I think I want him to prove it.
You’re overconfident. Arrogant. Guys like you are all the same
His reply comes so fast that I barely have time to breathe.
Bratvabloodline
And girls like you always pretend they don’t want to submit, that it’s all just a fantasy, until they’re on their knees, shaking, begging… it’s only arrogance if you can’t back it up, beautiful.
Oh god.
My breath catches. Damn him.
You’ve got quite the ego. Shame you don’t have the balls to prove it.
What am I doinggggggg? My mouth is dry, and my hands are shaking.
Bratvabloodline
Careful, little queen. That’s not a challenge you want to make. You’re making me very eager to prove how serious I am
There’s an ache between my legs I refuse to acknowledge as my fingers fly over the screen.
Oh, I’m shaking, I’m so scared. You, behind your phone, hiding in the shadows? Going to stop me? Please.
That’s it. I’m leaving him on read. I refuse to let him with this little… game, or whatever it is he’s playing. I grab my phone, pick up the book I’m reading without showing the cover, and do a quick little video asking my readers if they are as impatient as I am to get to the real meat of the story, or is it just my mood?
I don’t even edit it this time. I usually like to edit the hell out of them.
I post, comment on the responses I got from my last post, and, against my wildly better judgment, make a few comments on the thirst trap he’s trying to bait me with.
Little do you know what I really wish for. But nice start. Color me intrigued...
I grin to myself and throw caution to the wind like an idiot, baiting him publicly.
How much of this is posing and how much could you actually deliver? Are you into the “touch her and die” vibes or is that only for fiction. “My wife?” or meh? Would you actually put your woman on a pedestal and treat her like a queen, or are you just here for the attention?
I bite my lip, toss my phone down, and go to make another cup of hot cocoa. My phone buzzes and buzzes, notification after notification coming through.
I really need to change those settings.
I hesitate. I know I should stop. Block him. Shut this down. But instead, I press deeper, unable to resist the pull.
I can’t help it. I click his last message.
Bratvabloodline
Do you really want to find out how wrong you are?
Maybe I do.
The pause stretches long enough to make my chest tighten, anticipation building like a live wire. Then his response lands, lethal and dripping with dominance.
Bratvabloodline
Good. Because when I’m done with you, you won’t remember what it felt like to ever be in control.
My heart thunders in my chest. I know I’m walking a dangerous line, but the way his words sink into me makes me crave what’s on the other side.
No. I’m going to find out this is all fake, he’ll reveal his endgame, and I’ll feel all dejected and bereft.
Whatever. I am so over posers who think they can flirt with a needy woman online and stroke their own ego. He’s probably banging one off in his mother’s basement while he?—
In our message line, another post pops up, directly embedded in our conversation.
I stare, my eyes narrowing. It’s… I know this place. Cold washes over me as I recognize a shadowy corner of my latest shoot and the caption beneath it. He hasn’t posted it though… this is only for my eyes.
Caught the little photographer queen dreaming of her own anti-hero.
I recognize myself immediately, camera in hand, pointed at fading poinsettias outside a local cathedral after they discarded them at the end of the Christmas season.
He’s… this is… that’s me.
I should block him.
I should call the cops and report stalking like a reasonable, rational person… like I should have long ago when my stepbrother hurt me. I know what happens when you ignore your instincts.
But I don’t trust cops. I don’t trust men.
I’m suddenly filled with a blinding rage. My fingers shake on the screen.
Who the fuck are you and what are you doing?
Bratvabloodline
I’m calling your bluff, little queen. And I already told you who I am.
My bluff? Dude you’ve got one thick head if you think for one minute that I’m actually entertaining any of this. It’s for show. In real life, you can fuck off
Bratvabloodline
Is that so? After everything, you’re upset now? I told you what my life is, and you kept playing your little games. What did you think this was?
What I think is that you are out of your goddamn mind
Bratvabloodline
Maybe. But I think you’ll love your little present, little queen
My jaw drops. He did not.
The buzzer to my apartment building makes me jump a mile. What the actual fuck is going on? My heart is racing.
With shaky hands, I hit the buzzer, half expecting his deep voice and the Russian accent on the other end.
“Hel-lo?” I stammer.
“Hey, Ember. There’s a delivery here for you. Would you like me to bring it up? I’m heading to your floor to do a security sweep anyway.”
I blow out a breath and glare. “Who’s it from? What is it?”
“I can’t tell. It’s all wrapped up, and there’s no card.”
It could be a bomb. Could be a weapon. Could be?—
Okay, alright, I’m getting way ahead of myself here.
“Bring it up. Please,” I tack on.
I pace my apartment for the two whole minutes it takes for him to get there. It’s not out of the ordinary for me to get packages. In the past year, since my job as an influencer has taken off, I’ve gotten branded merch, books from authors, and sponsored deals. It’s been sweet, really. Who knew?
But the message he left… it’s just so… personal.
I hold my phone in hand when I realize he’s replied to my comment on his post.
“Touch her and die” isn’t a vibe… it’s a promise. A real man doesn’t need to make speeches about his devotion. He shows it. As far as “my wife” – My wife wouldn’t need to wonder where she stands because she’d feel it every second of the day—in the way I protect her, the way I’d learn every part of her.
Well then. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering. I can’t help it.
I’m melting a little.
You don’t put a woman on a pedestal to admire her from a distance. You put here there as a reminder of how much she’s worth, so she knows she’s the one calling the shots—even when it might feel like she isn’t.
I swallow hard.
He’s good.
Too good.
But god help me… I think I’m starting to believe him.
The knock sounds at my door so loudly I jump.
“Who is it?”
“Reggie. At the door, Ember. Did you forget already?”
I laugh nervously. “Just force of habit, Reg. Thanks.” I open the door to find Reggie with a box. This place is cheap, and Reggie likely makes minimum wage, but he takes his job seriously, and I’m thankful he does.
“Thanks,” I say confidently. I still have no idea who this is from, though I wonder…
Reggie salutes me then turns to leave as I discreetly begin opening the box. I stare at the contents, my cheeks coloring, as I quickly slide the top on the box and feign normalcy.
“Ember, you expecting a guest?”
I shake my head. “No, why?”
He frowns. “Thought I heard someone moving around up on the roof. Figured maybe you had company. I know that’s one of your favorite places to go.” He scratches his nose and shrugs. “Call me if you need anything.”
My heart beats so fast I feel dizzy. It is one of my favorite places to go. The roof is private, locked off. No one should be up there.
“Probably just a bird,” I say, even though the excuse sounds lame as fuck even to my own ears. That’s no fucking bird, but if this man is really who he says he is, poor Reggie doesn’t stand a chance. I can’t take that risk.
My heart is hammering, and I feel a little shaky. I wish I could be reasonable about this, but a part of me… the dangerous side of me, the part of me that’s drawn to antiheroes… wonders.
Surely, my imagination has gotten the better of me.
Hasn’t it?
“Could be. Sounded heavier than that. Want me to check it out?”
I shake my head. “No, no, I’m sure it’s nothing.” My grip tightens on the box. He nods and walks off, waving his fingers at me, leaving me alone with the weight of unease on my chest and the box in my hand.
Now that he’s gone, I open the box again, my mind whirring. I stare. This… it can’t be.
One of the most gorgeous, still-functioning vintage cameras on the market, the exact one I’ve been eying for months. Way out of my price range.
I drop the box as if it’s on fire when the lights go out.
My heart beats faster.
It’s just the lights.
Just lights.
It happens all the time. We don’t have a generator here, and wind speeds get out of control sometimes.
I swing my flashlight beam from my phone around the apartment. A smart, logical person would call the cops, but the last time I did that, I lived to regret it.
It’s why I work out so hard. It’s why I carry pepper spray in my bag and have memorized every self-defense move on the planet.
I don’t need someone to come and rescue me. I can do that for my own damn self.
I look at my phone, but there’s no new message from my stalker poser— whatever he is—so I toss it on the coffee table and stare at the stairs to the roof.
There’s no fucking way I’m going up there. Nope. Not gonna do it. Either this is all coincidence, or something’s gone terribly wrong. In either case, I’ll call a lawyer or whatever, but I need to have an actual story to tell them.
An online stranger flirted with me?
Someone I don’t know sent me a gift, when I get gifts daily from various sources, often not identifying the sender?
My security guy heard someone on the roof earlier?
Every fear is legitimate but sounds stupid. I need more to go on; I really do.
But isn’t this the type of logic that talks people out of making logical, reasonable decisions?
I send my online stalker a message.
What did you do?
No response.
I think about calling Reggie again, but I feel like a wuss. I can’t do that. I roll my eyes to myself and look back at my phone.
Still no response.
I will him to answer as my anger rises. How dare he play around with me like this?
Is he?
Now I’m furious. I open the door to the roof and holler up the stairs. “Hello? Who the hell is up there?”
Nothing.
I take the stairs two at a time and anchor my hands on my hips at the top. The light isn’t that great up here unless there’s a full moon, but right now, there’s a waxing crescent, the little sliver of moon casting hardly any light, so it’s dark.
I grip the phone tighter, my chest heaving. My mind screams at me to stop, to just call Reggie or leave it alone. But my body, my stupid, traitorous body, propels me forward.
I mentally go through self-defense moves if I need them.
“Who the hell is up here?" I bark into the darkness as I swing the light beam across the roof.
Silence. Then, as I take a step closer to the corner, a deep, low chuckle cuts through the night.
"That’s cute, little queen," a voice says, smooth and unhurried, with just enough of an accent to make my knees weak.
Oh god.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
My stomach drops, and I whip around, shining the beam where the sound came from. The flashlight shakes in my hand as the figure steps forward into the dim light.
I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t making shit up. He’s here, in the flesh, and I—I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I’m frozen in place like he’s waved a magic wand and incapacitated me.
He’s wearing the same black shirt from his videos, the tattoos winding down his forearms visible as he tucks his hands into his pockets. His mask is firmly in place, the black hollows of his gaze fixed straight on me.
"You," I hiss, my voice trembling with anger and… something else. "You followed me," I snap, trying to sound braver than I feel.
He cocks his head. "You invited me, little queen."
"You and I have very different interpretations of what ‘invitation’ means. I did not invite you.”
"Didn’t you?" His voice lowers as he takes a step closer. "All those messages, all those taunts. Testing me. Begging me to prove you wrong. Did you think I wouldn’t call your bluff?"
I backpedal, but he matches my movements, his steps slow and deliberate.
"You’re insane," I breathe out, but my voice has lost its bite. “If you hurt me?—”
His words come in a rush, sincere and full of meaning, his hands splayed out in front of him like a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to hurt you. I told you that.”
Did he? His words are quiet, but they slice through me like the edge of his knife.
My back hits the wall, and I realize I’ve run out of space. He prowls toward me, and god help me—either I’ve watched way too many masked men videos, or he knows exactly how to play this because this feels like the most delicious foreplay I’ve ever experienced. There’s an electric current under my skin, a thrum of anticipation echoing in my chest as heat floods my core.
He moves with predatory, fluid grace, all muscles and sinew. Those videos didn’t do him justice—he’s strength and power personified, so much taller than I imagined, so much bigger, his shoulders blocking my view, and the mystery of the man behind the mask has my heart beating so fast I’m a little dizzy.
I stifle a squeak when he reaches me. His arms cage me in, the heat of his body seeping into mine, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. One arm pressed against the wall, his gaze bores into mine. I lick my lips, my mouth dry.
"Go on," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll go."
I open my mouth, ready to shout, to shove him away, to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.
I imagine he’s smirking as if he knows my answer already. One of his hands lifts, and his knuckles brush my cheek, the touch barely there but enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"You like being in control, don’t you?" he whispers. "But what if, just for a moment, you let go? What if you let someone else take the weight for once?" He bends his mouth to my ear, his words a heated whisper that makes my bones feel like rubber. “What if you gave in to that fantasy, little queen?”
I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but nothing comes out.
“You could’ve blocked me the first time I tagged you, but you didn’t. Deep down, this isn’t a fantasy for you, is it?”
When I don’t respond, he continues.
“Tell me to go, Ember.” His voice is low and molten. “Say the word, and I’ll vanish.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. "The choice is yours. Always. But make no mistake—I don’t bluff."
His words hang in the air, thick with promise, as he steps back, giving me space. My knees nearly buckle as the heat between us dissipates like smoke.
I stare at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. I should tell him to leave, to get the hell out of my life before he burns it all down.
But the words won’t come.
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought, little queen," he says before disappearing into the shadows. “I’ll be waiting.”
And then he’s… gone, like Batman. Poof.
I’m left alone on the roof, my body trembling and my mind spinning.
God help me, I think I want him to come back.