Page 29 of Villainous Intent

There were probably hundreds of new MaskedTemptations posts. A blurry photo of his broad shoulders. A video clip of him brutalizing some low-tier Hero.

Cipher. The man I was supposed to fake date. The man I had been fantasizing about while...

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the humiliation of my morning shower immediately flooded my brain. The hot water beating down on my shoulders, the desperate, pathetic need to prove I was still in control of my own body.

I had worked to force an orgasm under the spray, conjuring up the image of the barista with the nice forearms. Then the delivery guy with the dimples. Safe men. Normal men. Men who didn’t pin me against walls and make my pussy clench with a single whispered threat.

Nothing had happened. Just dry, aching frustration.

My vibrator had been nothing more than cold plastic against my clit, a dead thing incapable of touching my desire. I was broken. That was the only logical explanation left. Clinically, call-a-doctor, broken.

I took another massive gulp of the merlot, staring at the dark wine in my glass. It looked like blood in the low light.

Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe I just needed the Syndicate to call so I could get this assignment over with.

I eyed my phone. It was still silent, the screen black.

Call me.

I drained the glass. The alcohol burned, but not enough to numb the restlessness inside me as I grabbed my laptop. I knew I shouldn’t look. I was just picking at a scab, but I couldn’t resist the urge. Just a peek. Just a taste.

The Villain Watch forum was buzzing with activity and right there, dominating the feed, “Who is Cipher’s Mystery Woman?” The comments were a frenzy of shipping names and links to fanfics tagged with Non-Con, Breeding, and Punishment.

My pulse kicked up and I felt the drop in my stomach that happened whenever I got too close to the edge.

I scrolled down until my cursor hovered over a new thread. Cipher’s Mystery Woman: What We Know So Far. My finger trembled against the surface of the trackpad. I already knew that my identity was safe, but I was still curious about what fans thought they knew.

My phone vibrated against my thigh with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown

Don’t open that post. Don’t read the comments. Trust me on this one.

I stared at the phone then shifted my gaze to the laptop screen.

“What the fuck?”

Who knew my exact browser activity? Who could watch my cursor move in real time? Only one person possessed that specific brand of invasive, terrifying arrogance.

The skin on the back of my neck prickled, the tiny hairs standing on end. Predator. Close.

I whipped my head toward my windows but all that met me was the neon bleed of Chroma Bay painting the night sky in artificial shades of magenta and electric blue. The windows offered a view that had seemed like a luxury just moments ago. Now it felt like they were offering a view of a brightly lit stage, and I was the main attraction.

I dashed across the room and grabbed the edge of the heavy blackout curtains. The metal rings shrieked against the rod as the fabric swooshed shut, obliterating the neon city, blotting out the invisible eyes.

I backed away, my chest heaving.

My laptop still sat on the mattress, the screen illuminating the tangled sheets in a pale glow. The tiny webcam lens stared blindly at me. Was the green indicator light flickering?

I lunged forward and slammed it shut.

Had he been watching me this entire time?

My phone buzzed again.

Your curtains are crooked. The left panel.

Slowly, I turned. The curtains were crooked. A gap no wider than a finger sliced through the fabric. I launched myself at the window and clawed them together, overlapping the fabric and sealing the gap with trembling fingers.