Page 100 of The Villain We Tempt

The Ghost Prince’s last video, which is one hundred percent a message forme, continues to play.

“POV: she was just over but left too soon,” Wren reads out loud, her brows furrowed as she watches the screen. “Just thinkingabout the way she tasted has you—guys, youcannotbe serious with this shit!” she groans, her face reddening.

“Hope you'll change your mind and still want to play, baby,” the modulated voice growls from the phone, instantly sending a ripple of heat through my core.

I’ve watched this video somewhere in the vicinity of eleventy million times by now. At first, it was indignant hate-watching. I watched it to remind myself what a fucking psychopath he is—at least that's what I told myself.

That he lured me to an abandoned building on the docks to spring his trap on me. That he’s been stalking me.Watching mein my most intimate moments via a hidden fucking camera in my room.

And yet…I keep watching. Not just this video, either. I keep watchingallhis content, enjoying the kick I get when I look at his shirtless, muscled torso on screen and know what those muscles feel like. When I watch his gloved hands twirl a baton or a knife, or knot heavy rope, andknowwhat those hands can do.

I read the thirsty comments about his bulge, or fans speculating on the size of his dick, and I feel arush.

I know exactly how big his dick is, and what it TASTES like…

That smug flash of exhilaration the knowledge gives me when I scroll through his comment sections is borderline unhinged and totally not healthy.

But as much as I want to roll my eyes at his fans, and as much as I understand the fixation because I see it in my own followers?

I can’t help myself.

Hello, parasocial ideation. Nice to meet you on this side of the glass…

“Hello? Earth to Galina?”

I yank myself out of my daydreams to see Wren and Lucia both grinning at me. My face throbs with heat.

“Sorry, did you need some alone time withhis highness?” Wren giggles.

Yes. Because we need to have a serious conversation about boundaries.

…A name might be nice, too.

“No, thank you,” I mumble, trying to will the heat from my cheeks.

Wren glances back at Lucia’s phone screen, where a shirtless Ghost Prince, wearing his usual mask, is sitting backward in a folding chair, gyrating on it Magic Mike style.

Totallynot me getting mortifyingly turned on…

“So, you think this guy is a Knightsblood student?”

I shrug. “Maybe? Probably?”

Number one, he always seems to be close by. He could live in Hawthorne Hollow, of course, but even though I haven’t seen his face, his body looks college-age. Also, he was at that Para Bellum party, and they were checking people at the door. If hewasn’ta Knightsblood student, how would he have gotten in?

Also, I picked through the pieces of that spy cam I smashed, found a serial number, and looked it up online. It’s not a Wi-Fi connectable model, and the transmission range is only two miles.

That couldstillplace him in Hawthorne Hollow rather than here. But I dunno…

I just have a feeling he’s a student here too. I want to say it’s crazy that a mafia heir at Knightsblood University would also secretly be a masked content creator.

But, um….pot, meet kettle.

This is where things have gotten embarrassing. Because even if my theory puts him on the Knightsblood campus, I still have no idea who he is.

…So I’ve found myselflooking.

Covertly, obviously. But when I walk across the quad, or sit in the dining hall, or file into a lecture hall, I find my eyes doing a slow sweep over the male students around me.