Chapter 9
GALINA
One of the things I love about fictional men is that even when they’re dicks or grumps or whatever, you know there’s some sort of grovel on the horizon where they’ll tell the leading lady how amazing she is, how they want to worship her because they’re obsessed with her, and how they were an enormous idiot for being a butthead before.
Unlike in the real world, where you get assholes like Lochlan Kildare.
Unapologetic, unrepentant, smug little shits who walk around like everyone should be bowing down to them.
There’s no grovel on that horizon. No lightning strike moment when they realize you’re a fucking queen and they’ve been waiting their whole lives to worship and adore you.
No no no.
Lochlan is what a “walking red flag” looks like in the real world, without the veneer of fiction.
And just because why not, life has a way of fucking with you even more by making unrepentant gaping assholes like Lochlan ludicrously attractive.
It would be so easy to ignore a prick like my power-tripping TA. But not when he looks like, well, that.
I mean, are you fucking kidding me?
Smug little shit or not, Lochlan Kildare is gorgeous.
I know I should loathe him for being yet another arrogant, cocky, smug, privileged jock. But good lord.
On the other side of the athletic field, a distractingly shirtless Lochlan is running drills with Achilles Drakos and Drago Krylov.
Achilles, the school’s star quarterback, is throwing passes to Lochlan, the star wide receiver, while Drago, the—wait for it—star defensemen of both the football and hockey teams tries to intercept the ball or tackle him or whatever you do in football to mess up a play.
I feel my cheeks heat as my eyes stage a coup and ignore my protests as they track a shirtless, insanely hot Lochlan across the field.
Yeah, “loathe” is a hard sell when the smug prick is six foot three of pure, chiseled, lean muscle, with criminally bright blue eyes and dark blond hair that is just unkempt enough.
And tattoos.
And muscles.
And that grin.
Did I mention the muscles?
Ugh.
“You’re drooling.”
I startle, whirling with pink cheeks toward Ari.
“I most certainly am not.”
She gives me a “yeah, whatever,” look and goes back to eyeing the athletic field from our perch up in the bleachers.
“Remind me what we’re doing here again?” I groan, fanning myself.
It’s unusually warm for being fall in New England. Unlike the ridiculously hot asshole running plays on the other side of the field, I am not topless, but the longer I sit here sweating into my school uniform, the more I’m considering it.
Arinna sighs. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”
“Hey, if you want to ogle shirtless guys in peace, you just let me know, girl.”
I'm kidding when I ask why we're here. Ari, quiet little overachiever that she is, is minoring in fine arts, and has a “studies in moving figures” life drawing class. She’s getting some practice in by rapid-fire sketching the various athletes out on the field, and that's why we’re sweating our asses off in the bleachers.
Ari is a fantastic artist. I mean, genuinely super talented. But I do crack up whenever I think of my slightly asexual friend with her low-key “I don’t care if men are interested in me” attitude sitting through the nude figure studies classes that I know are part of the curriculum.
The roar of an engine startles us and jerks our attention to the gate entrance to the athletic fields. A black and chrome motorcycle backfires loudly as the rider walks it onto the field, kicks down the stand, and kills the engine.
I shiver.
I grew up in the bratva world, and Adrik Volkov still freaks me out.
I watch the tall, muscular, dark-haired bratva heir tug off his helmet and swing his leg over his bike as he dismounts.
He hangs the helmet on one of his handlebars, then shrugs off first his black leather jacket, then his black t-shirt, revealing an insanely muscular frame covered in swirling tattoos.
Um, okay?
I’m confused for a second, but then someone in the boxing club nods and waves him over.
Knightsblood doesn’t have an official boxing team, just a club of fighting enthusiasts. Most are in The Reckless, though Damiano is heavily involved, too.
Ari and I both go silent as a shirtless, brooding Adrik stalks toward the boxing ring, taking a drag on the cigarette hanging from his lower lip before deftly flicking it away.
He steps into the middle of the ring and touches bare fists with another guy I think I recognize from The Reckless.
Then, without any preamble, they start to fight…although I don’t know if you can call the way Adrik morphs into a dark god of savagery and warfare “fighting”. It’s more a case of the other guy surviving Adrik’s sudden violent onslaught.
It’s over in under a minute, leaving Adrik’s opponent on the ground bleeding from the nose, mouth, and a cut over his left eye. But he grins as he spits out blood and accepts Adrik’s hand to help him back up.
“Psychotic behavior,” I mutter. “Who the hell would be interested in—”
My mouth snaps shut as I turn to find Ari madly sketching in her sketchbook. Her pencil slashes across the page, gradually revealing an action-blurred figure of a monster with snarling teeth and raised fists.
Just kidding. She’s drawing Adrik.
“Uh…Ari?”
She glances at me and blushes before her gaze slips back to the page in front of her. “Calm down, horny-pants,” she giggles. “It’s perfect practice for dynamic anatomy sketches.”
A grin creeps over my face. “Oh, I agree. Adrik’s dynamic anatomy is—”
She whacks my arm, rolls her eyes, and goes back to her sketching.
Still grinning, I turn and then scowl a little when I see Lochlan hanging off the field goal, his arm muscles flexing as he does a dozen quick pull-ups, all while laughing at something Drago is saying.
Fuck a duck.
It’s seriously unfair that such an arrogant dick is that physically attractive.
“Want to borrow a sketchpad?” Arianna snickers.
My face heats as I turn to see her grinning at me, and at where I was staring.
“Depends. Think I could hit him from here with it?”
She laughs and goes back to her drawing. I sigh and take out my phone to covertly check in on my account.
The very second after I open the app, I get a new DM notification.
From him.
My pulse skips.
The Ghost Prince
did you enjoy yourself the other night?
Heat suffuses my face as I swallow.
Yes.
Yes, I very much enjoyed myself. I may or may not still be masturbating to it days later…
Velvet Villainess
Not as much as YOU did, I’m sure.
The Ghost Prince
I’ve been fantasizing about your mouth, you know.
Another wave of heat creeps up my neck. My bottom lip retreats between my teeth as a throb pulses in my core.
The Ghost Prince
I want to see you again, Galina.
Two emotions hit at the same time. The first is a spark of shock that comes with him calling me by my name while we’re chatting on my Velvet Villainess account. It’s like he’s showing just how easily he can step over the walls I’ve surrounded myself with.
The second is a snap-back to reality, like a rubber band to the wrist. This isn’t one of my sexy masked fictional book boyfriends.
This is a stranger who has leverage on me, who blackmailed me onto my knees the other night with that video he has of me.
Velvet Villainess
Is this a summons?
The Ghost Prince
No. It’s an invitation.
Velvet Villainess
Invitation implies I have a choice. What’s it going to cost me this time?
The Ghost Prince
Is that what you think this is, baby?
Heat tingles over my cheeks.
Baby.
I chew on my lip, glancing over to Ari who is still madly sketching half-naked tattooed men tackling each other. Then I look back at my phone.
Velvet Villainess
You have that video. So yes, that's exactly what I think this is.
There’s a pause before his next DM arrives.
The Ghost Prince
What if I told you there is no video.
I blink rapidly at the screen.
Velvet Villainess
There isn't?
The Ghost Prince
If there wasn’t, would you still want to meet.
The Ghost Prince
Would you still be a good girl for me, little villain?
A dark, dangerous viper slithers and coils around my core.
Velvet Villainess
I don’t want to play the what-if game. Just tell me where I'm supposed to meet you.
The Ghost Prince
Then no what-ifs. There's no video. There never was.
My skin prickles.
Velvet Villainess
You're lying.
The Ghost Prince
Why would I do that?
Velvet Villainess
IDK, to fuck with me? To get me to drop my guard so that you can jump out and grab me or something?
The Ghost Prince
I could do that any time I wanted, baby.
My thighs squeeze together as my breath hitches.
God, BookTok and MaskTok have done a number on me…
Velvet Villainess
You REALLY don’t have a video of me changing into my VV outfit and filming in the library the night of the Para Bellum party?
The Ghost Prince
I do not. But you’re welcome to still pretend I do.
Heat creeps into my face.
Velvet Villainess
Why would I do that?
I think I know the answer even before I get his reply. But when it arrives, the way he’s effortlessly peeled back my layers shakes me to my core.
The Ghost Prince
You like control, Galina. You crave it. Your whole life is structured around it.
The Ghost Prince
But behind closed doors, you desperately need someone to take it away from you.
The Ghost Prince
That's why you were so eager to be on your knees letting me take control the other night. It’s why we’re still having this conversation.
My pulse races and my breath turns shallow as I re-read his words three times.
I want so badly to laugh. To roll my eyes and tell him he’s wrong. That he’s been reading too much “psychology of seduction” manosphere bullshit.
But I can’t.
Because horribly, viscerally, and with shocking clarity, I realize that he’s right.
In my day-to-day life, I live for structure. Schedules set. Outfits laid out the night before. School notes highlighted and tabbed with corresponding colors.
Hair always perfect. Week always organized. Content shot and edited and ready to serve to my followers on a precise schedule.