Page 20 of Shades of Silver City

I crack open my eyes, flinching at the bright orange light gently swaying overhead. Scanning the room, I desperately try to make sense of what the hell is going on. Brick walls surround me, and a dirt floor sits beneath me. I’m bound to a steel chair—alone—in what seems to be a basement or some small underground room.

“Hey!” I call out, relieved that there’s nothing covering my mouth. My tongue is dry, and my throat aches for water. I shudder. How long have I been out? “My boyfriend is looking for me. He’s going to find me, and he’ll fuck you up.”

It’s an empty threat, a desperate one. Anyone who knows my boyfriend, Reed, knows he’s probably partying with my roommates. I doubt he’ll even notice my absence.

Tears prick my eyes.

“Please!” I call out, my voice cracking.

Behind me, a door creaks open and clicks shut softly.

“You’re awake,” the same velvety voice from earlier says.

“No shit,” I mutter. “Let me go!”

“Thought your boyfriend was coming to save you?” he mutters.

“You’re a huge piece of—”

I trail off as the man steps into view.

The Gods-damned Phantom.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. When I reopen them, I get a good look at him. In this light, I can fully make out his features.

He’s not at all what I expected. The muscles and tattoos, yes, but not the head full of thick, dark, golden-blond hair. With the way it’s longer and messier on the top, he appears younger, more boyish than I’d expected. Maybe mid to late twenties. Barely any older than me.

The wanted sketches make him look older, rougher, and less appealing than he truly is.

His lips tighten with annoyance as he scrutinizes me.

It’s not the man’s attractiveness that gives me pause. I learned at a young age never to judge a book by its cover. My first foster father was a handsome man, too. But his fondness for beating up his wife and children revealed his cruel heart.

Pretty bindings sometimes hold together ugly interiors.

No, what strikes me is the genuine concern that takes over the Phantom’s eyes as he takes me in. His lips pull into a frown as his eyes roam over the position of my arms and the bindings around my ankles.

“That’s excessive,” he mutters, scratching the thin layer of scruff on his chin with his tattooed fingers.

“No shit.” I narrow my eyes at him. Where the hell does he get the right to act concerned?

He cocks his head, curiosity replacing the annoyance. “You’re just as feisty as you were in the alley earlier.”

“I’m fed up. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I told you, I didn’t say shit to anyone about what I saw.”

“And what exactly did you see?”

“Nothing.” I clamp my lips shut, inclining my chin.

He studies me for a moment before kneeling and letting out a sigh. He eyes the ropes for a second, and then his fingers start working one of the knots. The light glints off his rings as he struggles with the rope. “For Gods’ sakes, Godric,” he mutters under his breath. “This isn’t what I had intended.”

I grunt. “Oh, so the whole shooting me up is fine, but tying me up is where you draw the line?”

An image of the last time someone injected something into my veins flashes through my mind. It was a few weeks before my parents’ deaths.

Our little secret, my Fantastic Fantasia, my dad said after giving me a shot.

I grit my teeth and stare at the Phantom with disdain. “What did you inject me with?”

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