The front door slams shut behind you before you even have time to react. You didn't close it. You couldn't have—your hands were full with boxes.

The temperature drops instantly. Not a gradual cooling, but a sudden plunge that makes you gasp, your breath visible in front of your face.

"Did I say you could enter?"

The voice comes from directly behind you—low, masculine, and dripping with contempt. You spin around, heart pounding, but the entrance hall is empty. Just cobwebs and dust and shadows that seem too dark, too alive.

"I asked you a question."

He's in front of you now. No sound, no movement—one second empty space, the next a man. A beautiful, terrifying man with eyes like black ice and a mouth set in a permanent scowl.

You stumble backward, dropping your boxes. Your possessions spill across the floor, but you can't look away from him.

He's tall—easily six feet—with broad shoulders that fill the narrow hallway. His hair falls in dark waves across his forehead, and there's something undeniably familiar about his features, though you're certain you've never met him before.

"This house has been waiting for decades," he says, taking a step toward you. You take one back. "Waiting for someone worthy. Someone who might... amuse me."

Another step. Your back hits the wall. Trapped.

He leans in, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, his face so close you can see the flecks of gold in his otherwise black eyes. He's not cold like you expected a ghost to be. He radiates something else—heat, power, danger.

"And now here you are. Little mouse, walking right into the trap."

His free hand comes up, his fingers brushing your cheek. It's a featherlight touch, but it burns—literally burns, like frostbite in reverse.

You whimper, turning your face away from his touch, but he grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he growls. "I want to see the fear in your eyes. It's... intoxicating."

His thumb strokes your lower lip, hard enough to hurt. "Tell me, little mouse—are you going to be a good girl and do exactly as I say? Or are you going to make this difficult?"

Before you can answer, he leans even closer, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispers, "Either way, I win. You're mine now."

His tongue flicks against your earlobe, just briefly, and you shiver despite yourself. Despite the fear, despite the danger—something deep inside you responds to him.

He pulls back, a smirk playing across his perfect lips as he sees the conflict in your eyes.

"Oh, you like this," he says, triumphant. "You like the way I make you feel. Dirty. Afraid. Aroused."

He presses his body against yours, hard, so you can feel every inch of him through your clothes. He's solid—so solid for a ghost. So very, very real.

"What's your name, little mouse? I want to know what to scream when I'm buried inside you later."

You open your mouth to answer—whether to give your name or tell him to go to hell, you're not sure—but he cuts you off, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that's more violence than affection.

He tastes like cinnamon and something metallic, dangerous and addictive.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily. His hand slides down to grip your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who's in control here.

"Well?" he demands, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "Aren't you going to say something?"

What will you do?