Chapter 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 in Squid 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.
Of course he’s shirtless.
Black jeans, black boots, that, frankly, really nice black 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 be towering on 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-pack of his abs, the twin deep channels of his hip flexors. His bulging biceps and veined forearms.
My pulse quickens. I’m suddenly very aware that I don’t know a goddamn thing about this man.
Who he is.
What he wants from me.
If he’s dangerous.
I mean legit dangerous. Yeah, he could be just one more guy who fell into making MaskTok content to stroke his ego or impress girls.
…Present company very much included.
But what if it's all to hide something truly dark and monstrous? What if it isn't so much “act like a masked psycho to charm the girl” as it is “charm the girl so she doesn’t realize the mask is covering an actual psycho”?
“My friends know where I am.”
I cringe at how nervously the words tumble from my lips. They were supposed to come out cool and confident.
The Ghost Prince says nothing.
“Did you hear me?” I snap. “People know I’m—”
“No, they don’t.”
Fear licks over my nerve endings as my spine snaps straight.
“Nobody knows you’re here, do they, little villain?”
A shaky breath ghosts over my slightly parted lips.
He’s right.
No one knows.
But what the fuck was I supposed to say?
Hey, Arianna, how’s your night? Oh, just so you know, I’m going to this abandoned building out on the darkest, sketchiest, most deserted pier in the harbor to meet a masked dude whose real identity I don’t know, not even a little.
But don’t worry, I met him on the internet.
I mean for fuck’s sake, where do I sign the release for the future true crime documentary they’ll make about this very night? God, I hope they get an actual redhead to play me, not some annoying hack with a shitty wig or a dye—
“Breathe, little villain.”
That deep, masculine, modulated voice rips me out of my spiral. I blink, and then slowly realize my mouth is pressed to a thin line and my lungs are burning.
I exhale in a rush, then suck in a breath of cool, fresh air.
“If I was going to hurt you…”
My breath catches sharply as the words tumble from his voice scrambler.
“…I would have done so already.”
The words hang in the air for a second. My lungs start to burn again.
“Why don’t we skip to the part where I no longer have to remind you to keep breathing.”
I let loose another shaky, sudden exhale.
“Were you under the impression that the video from the other night is sitting there on that phone?” He nods past me at the tripod.
I cringe internally. When he says it out loud, it sounds completely idiotic.
Of course it’s not. Of course he’s got it on a hard drive or up in the cloud somewhere. It's a moot point, anyway. It’s abundantly clear now that this whole thing was a setup.
Bait, to lure me here and trap me.
“I already told you,” the Ghost Prince growls. “If I was going to hurt you, I would have done so by now. Maybe while I was watching you sleep the other night.”
A hot, embarrassing thrill stabs into me.
While I was watching you sleep the other night.
What the actual fuck?!
I force myself to look into his masked face.
“Y-you watched me sleep?” I croak.
He nods his head slowly.
“What do you mean by that.”
A sound that might be a chuckle rumbles from his modulator.
“Exactly what it sounds like. I stood over your unconscious form and watched you sleep.”
That embarrassing, thrilling feeling inside me coils, twists, and throbs. Then a thought hits me.
“Did…” I clear my throat, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “Did you take any—”
“Yes.”
My insides knot and tighten, something insidious slithering through my core.
I love fashion, and I love my clothes. Laundry day is a carefully planned operation. I fold and put things away with precision verging on military.
So when I wake up and go to get dressed, and the blue bra does not have its matching pair of panties sitting directly next to it in the drawer, I’m thrown. I don't know how that could have happened.
…Now I think I do.
“You took two pairs of my underwear,” I mumble.
“Yes.”
Heat pools between my thighs.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
Even though he makes no reply, I swear I can feel the grin behind his mask.
…I can also feel the throb of need tugging at my center.
“Why am I here?” I blurt.
“It was your choice to come here,” he answers robotically. Again, though, I can feel smugness emanating from behind his mask as he deftly folds his tattooed arms over that gorgeous torso.
My brows knit. “You know what I mean. You baited me into coming here. I want to know why.”
The silence hangs between us for a few very long seconds.
“Curiosity,” he finally says.
Heat slow-walks up my spine, spreading through my body.
“About what?” I breathe.
“Who you are, little villain,” he growls.
I feel myself squirm beneath his invisible gaze.
“You know who I am,” I whisper tightly.
“Yes indeed, Galina,” he purrs.
That heated thing inside me coils a little tighter.
“I’ll clarify. What I mean is, I wanted to see if you are truly what you appear to be in your videos, or if it’s all just an act for the camera.”
I start to open my mouth, then close it again. I have no idea if telling the truth or lying is a better idea right now.
Because the truth is, it’s not an act. Velvet Villainess is just an outlet for all the things that Galina Nikitin can’t be.
But I’m not sure that telling him that is such a good idea.
The Ghost Prince chuckles mechanically again.
“You’re easier to read than I imagined you would be.”
I frown. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s find out, shall we.”
I shiver when he straightens from where he's been leaning back again the door and stands to his full height, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe behind him and sending a ripple twisting through me.
I really might have just stepped into some shit I’m woefully unprepared for.
On the one hand, he has a good point: if he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now. Especially if he’s…Jesus fuck…telling the truth about having broken into my goddamn bedroom and watched me sleep.
And I wouldn't put that past him.
But on the other hand, what if toying with me and playing with my trust is all part of his twisted “thing”?
What if he gets off on getting me to let my guard down, so that when he does eventually cut my skin off, or rape me, or chain me up in his dungeon for the next ten years while I bear him light-deprived, malnourished children, it’s more of a shock?
Suddenly, the Ghost Prince steps to the side, turns, and nods his chin at the door.
“It’s right there.”
My gaze slides to the doorknob, then to him, then back to the doorknob.
“I won’t physically restrain you.”
Again, it could be a trap. His “thing” might be waiting until I’ve got my fingers on the doorknob and the taste of freedom on my tongue before he tightens the noose.
I glance back at the camera on the tripod, then swivel my gaze back to him.
“You won’t physically restrain me.”
I can feel that goddamn smug grin behind his mask. Motherfucker.
“But you won’t have to,” I mutter sourly. “Because you have that video.”
He doesn’t say a word, and the silence is devastating.
“What do you want?” I croak, feeling another heated throb ripple through my core, like my body can’t decide if it’s scared, prepping for fight or flight mode, or getting ready to be intimately touched.
He draws in a slow breath as he rolls his neck, arms still folded over his massive, tattooed chest.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “I need to find out what’s really inside that pretty little head of yours. I need to see the real Villainess.”
My throat bobs. “How do you plan on doing that?” I all but whisper.
Breathlessly.
God help me, way, way too eagerly.
The Ghost Prince cracks his tattooed knuckles, then drops his arms to his sides. He seems to grow even taller as his blank eyes pierce into mine.
“We’re going to play a game. It's called ‘Fantasy or Fiction’.”
My tongue slips out and wets my lips. My pulse skips as his I feel his gaze slither over me.
I’m wearing leggings, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, but right now, I feel completely naked before him.
I suck in a nervous breath. “How… How does the game work?”
I can absolutely sense his grin glinting behind his mask this time.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
Heat stabs into me as I stare at him, shocked by the bluntness of his words.
“Excuse me?”
His finger twitches at his side, making my pulse skip.