Play with the Phantom (Midnight, #2)

by Amanda Richardson

I am an eldest daughter, after all. We overthink. We measure. We try to get things right, even when no one is watching. Even when no one else cares.

Unraveling it slowly, I barely catch the object before it tumbles from my hands. My breath snags. Oh my god.

But I can’t answer yet—my hands are shaking too much. I turn the package over, reading the label, checking, double-checking, because there’s no way⁠— But it is. It’s a vintage Polly Pocket. Not just any, but one of the rarest sets ever—the Jewel Secrets collection from Bluebird Toys. New in the package. Perfectly preserved. My holy grail.

“A toy?” Asher asks, his voice bordering on incredulous. “You got my girlfriend a toy?”

“It’s not just a toy,” I whisper, my voice unsteady, my throat aching in a way I don’t expect. I press my lips together, trying to suppress the sudden, overwhelming weight of emotion pressing into my ribs.

I don’t cry over things. But for a horrifying second, I think I might. I glance down again, running my fingers over the slightly discolored plastic, the delicate packaging that has somehow survived decades untouched. It’s perfect. It’s mine. And Maddox knew.

Asher sighs. “So is it… worth a lot of money...

His voice is smooth, but sharp enough to cut. “It’s not about money,” he says evenly.

“Maybe if you paid attention, you’d know it’s at the top of your girlfriend’s public wish list,” Maddox continues, his tone cool, edged with quiet amusement.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “It’s sentimental more than anything,” I say, running my fingers along the plastic once more.

I’d never tell Asher this, but I used to own the same set. I was maybe three or four when my grandma took me shopping. It’s one of my first memories—walking along the toy aisles, waiting to pick something out. My youngest sister had just been born, so my grandma took me back to her house—the same house I currently live in. I spent all day playing with the Jewel Secrets set. I loved it more than anything I’d ever loved before. And when my dad came to pick me up, he made me throw it away. I can’t even remember the reason, but as I got older, I realized it was because he prioritized discipline, practicality, and “usefulness” over anything he perceived as superficial. He viewed all feminine, princess-y things as pointless—indulgent, even. Later, as a teenager, he would emphasize obedience in everything I did. It was never about the toy. It was about control. About shaping me into someone who didn’t question authority, who didn’t make selfish choices, who didn’t waste time on things that brought joy instead of function. And I was the eldest daughter. I had to be strong. Had to be responsible. Had to be perfect. There was no space for softness. No room for mistakes. No time to be a little girl who just wanted to keep her favorite toy.

*sobs*

“You act like you’re content. Like you’ve got it all figured out. The steady job, the loyal boyfriend, the safe little life. But deep down?”

“You’re fucking starving. For more. For someone to see you. For someone to take you seriously when you stop pretending you want this kind of life.”

“You’ve been taught to accept less,” he murmurs. “To settle for whatever scraps people give you and call it love. But you don’t want scraps, do you, Ari? You never did. You just never thought you could ask for more.”

“You do. Maybe it was your upbringing, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve always had to be strong for your sisters. They’re younger than you, right?”

“You pretend you’re fine with it—pretend it’s easier that way—but deep down?”

“You’re restless. You’re waiting for someone to give you permission to live the life you’ve always wanted. Truly wanted. Not the life you’re supposed to have… but the one you want more than your next breath.”

“How did you know?” My voice is quieter than I mean it to be. “About the wish list.”

“They’re not hard to find, for people who want to see them.”

“Most people don’t pay attention. Not really. They hear what they want, see what’s convenient. But if you know where to look, what to listen for…”

“And you do?”

“For the things that matter, ...

It should unnerve me—the way he sees things no one else does, the way he sees me. But instead, it feels… nice. Thoughtful in a way I hadn’t realized I craved.

He doesn’t expect me to be easy. He just wants me to be real. And against all logic, I’m starting to like being around him.

“So you’re saying this is, like… some next-level stalker shit? From a guy who just got out of prison?”

“Maybe. What’d he go to prison for?”

“I don’t actually know.”

“Well, find out,” Frankie practically hisses. “And maybe stop ignoring red flags before you becom...

“So comforting,” I tell her, my voice sarcastic. A text comes through, and I frown at my screen. “I should go. Asher just texted me. I’ll keep you updated, okay? And if they find my body in a ditch… well...

“Jesus Christ. You’re the exact kind of girl they make those ‘why didn’t she just lea...

I shift slightly, my thighs pressing together as I turn the page. It’s always the villains. Always. Something about the way they take. The way they know what they want—who they want—and don’t apologize for it.

Measured, familiar footsteps. My heart slows. The tension eases just enough for me to quell the onset of a panic attack. Because I know that walk. It’s Asher.

I dont think so girl lol

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“You scared the hell out of me,”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

My body is heavy, warm, pliant. The Ambien has me floating, untethered, sinking into the dreamlike pull of it. Asher’s finally here, finally giving me what I wanted. Isn’t he? I blink up at him, the room tilting, shifting around us. A thumb brushes over my lower lip, slow, possessive, and unyielding, as if testing the softness before claiming it.

His other hand comes to my throat, fingers curling just enough to make me aware of his strength, his control. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who’s in charge. My pulse pounds beneath his grip. His thumb brushes along my pulse point, slow, measured. I break out in goosebumps.

When his hands find my body—strong, firm, possessive in a way Asher never is—my thoughts splinter. He touches me like he’s never touched me before. Somewhere, deep in the foggy corners of my mind, awareness stirs. A distant voice whispers that something is off. That this doesn’t make sense. But it’s too quiet, too far away to grasp. The Ambien makes everything slow and liquid, reality slipping through my fingers like silk. The press of his hands, the deliberate way they explore, claim, take, it drowns out everything else.

My breath hitches as his palm skims up my bare thigh, slow and deliberate. Not hesitant. Not careful. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s done it before—because of course he has.

The smooth heat of his hand makes me shiver. I’m only wearing the oversized sleep shirt—no underwear, no bra. I can tell the second his hands pass over my peaked nipples, realizing I’m bare underneath the shirt. A quiet, almost imperceptible inhale leaves him—sharp, restrained—like he’s breathing me in, like he’s memorizing the way I feel beneath his touch. When his fingers finally press into my waist, his grip tightens, just for a second, like he can’t help himself. A low sound rumbles in his chest—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—but something in between, something primal.

“Fuck, Ari,” he rasps, voice frayed, almost like the word scrapes against his throat. His nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths, like he’s been starving for this—for me.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is low, almost reverent, but there’s an edge beneath it—something dangerous, something claiming.

“Only took you two years to notice,” I bite back, trying not to smirk.

His lips graze my throat, breath warm against my skin. I get a whiff of that same unfamiliar scent. The one from the last time I was on Ambien. It’s richer than Asher’s scent—more like a forest, more powerful. It wraps around me, and I groan as he runs his hands between my legs.

“You’re different,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath my touch.

“Is that bad?”

I hesitate, my brain swimming in the thick, velvety fog of the Ambien. No. Yes. I don’t know. I blink up at him, his face blurred at the edges, shifting in and out of focus like a dream that won’t stay still. Not real. Maybe real.

My thoughts feel slippery, unsteady, like I’m trying to hold on to water. “No,” I whis...

“You’re tired,” he murmurs.

Soft. Soothing. A lie wrapped in silk. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is just the Ambien twisting my reality, making everything feel different, making him feel different. Because this is Asher. I’d know his voice, his feel anywhere.