Play with the Phantom (Midnight, #2)

by Amanda Richardson

“I’m not yours.”

“Yeah?” He leans in closer, his voice barely a whisper. “Then tell me why you’re wearing the clothes I picked out and bought for you… why you smell like me…” His thumb drags over my hip, where last night’s bruises are starting to bloom. “…and why I can feel you shaking beneath my touch, like you can’t fucking wait for me to do it again?”

It was Maddox. It was Maddox. Oh God, I sat on my boyfriend’s twin brother’s face while he ate me out.

“You think this is funny? That you can just—just sneak into my room like some kind of deranged stalker and—” I choke on my words, my pulse fluttering against my throat. “Oh my god. It was you. The letters… Blythe seeing a guy that looked like Asher…”

“Just to warn you, I have a black belt and I’ll kick your fucking ass if you try and hurt me⁠—”

“Hurt you?” His voice dips lower, edged with something rough, something almost… offended.

“Angel, the only way I’d ever hurt you is if you begged me for it. If you got on your knees, looked up at me with those pretty, desperate eyes, and asked me nicely.”

“And even then?” His fingers skim my jaw, tilting my chin up until my breath is trapped between us. “I’d make sure you loved every second of it.”

“I can feel it, you know,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the barest line down my throat, not applying pressure—just reminding me that he could. That I’d let him. “The way your pulse is racing. The way your breath shudders every time I get close.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“If that’s true, Ari, then why are you still here? Why haven’t you screamed—or run?”

Because I don’t want to. The realization crashes over me like a wave, and fuck, I think he sees it, too.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I ask, my voice a frayed whisper. “I’m not a che...

That smirk is back, sharp and unrepentant, cutting through me like a blade. And now, in the unforgiving daylight, I see it. The difference. Asher is polished, all smooth edges and effortless charm, a man who’s never had to fight for anything in his life. His face is untouched by hardship, unmarked by anything more than the ...

Maddox is carved from something rougher, honed into something sharper. A man forced to become a predator to survive. It’s in the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, always calculating. It’s in the way his body holds tension, coiled like he’s always waiting for the next fight. Even his features, so identical to Asher’s in theory, have been molded into something else entirely. The same sharp cheekbones, the same strong jaw, but harder. Harsher. His blue eyes don’t just see, they assess, stripping me bar...

I shove at his chest, and this time, he lets me go, taking a step back and gesturing to the door, as if to say, Go on and run, but I’m going to catch you eventually.

I could’ve gone anywhere after San Quentin. Any city, any direction. Left it all behind. But I didn’t. I came here. To her. I pull the picture out of my pocket, the edges soft from over a year of constant handling. Ari. Her smile in the photo is small, unsure, her fingers curled in like she doesn’t know what to do with them. My mom sent it over a year ago, tucked in with a few others. A casual update. She said Ari was the girlfriend Asher never really talked about.

Ari spent her whole life holding the world together. Carrying a weight no one else can see. I saw it the first time I looked at her picture—that tension in her shoulders, the way she stood like she was bracing for something. Like she’s always preparing for the next expectation, the next demand, the next thing she has to fix. That’s not something you learn overnight. It’s something ingrained, beaten into you over years. I know it because I’ve seen that look before. Every time I looked in a mirror. And once before—on someone I loved. Someone I lost. Someone who used to smile just like that—bright, but a little too careful. Someone who never put herself first, who gave and gave until there was nothing left.

Of course she’ll fight it. She’ll push. She’ll tell herself she’s loyal, that she’s in love with Asher, that she doesn’t want this. And maybe she’ll even believe it. But I don’t need her belief. I need her surrender. And that? That’s only a matter of time.

They never proved I had anything to do with Whittaker’s death. But I was there. I got into his building the night he died, no question. The charges didn’t stick for murder, but twenty years for conspiracy and obstruction? That held. They said I was part of a coordinated effort to intimidate corporate leaders. Maybe I was. Prison didn’t slow me down. I ran my operation from the inside, kept my team sharp, the money flowing. Now I’m out—and richer than ever. Slid right back into the role like I never left.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll make her let go. I’ll show her she doesn’t have to make the decisions, or be the strong one, or take care of everyone else. She’s mine to take care of now. Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.

The article is twenty years old, the quality grainy, but it’s him. A younger Maddox, standing in uniform, holding a little girl. My stomach drops.

The caption hits me like a punch. Maddox Cross, 23, pictured with his late daughter, Lila Cross, 2, during his final deployment.

There’s another photo—a woman this time. She’s beautiful. Warm brown eyes, a bright, easy smile. Her hand rests on Maddox’s chest, fingers curling over his heart. Elaine Cross, 23, beloved mother and wife, tragically passed away three weeks after her daughter in 2005.

My stomach twists, a painful, disorienting thing. All at once, the things he’s said to me start rearranging themselves in my mind. “You remind me of someone.” I think I’m going to be sick.

I type in Elaine Cross, and multiple articles on tabloid websites pop up. Lila Cross. Four years old. Denied treatment by GoldStar Health. Passed away in a pediatric hospice. Elaine Cross. Found...

I don’t know how long I sit there, my breaths coming too fast, my chest too tight. Because suddenly, Maddox isn’t just Asher’s dangerous older brother. He isn’t just the criminal, the convicted felon, the man who snuck into my room and ruined me in the dark. He’s a father who lost his daughter. A husband who buried his wife. A man who had everything ripped away from him before being locked in a cage for two decades.

Turning back to the ocean, I inhale deeply, letting the salty air fill my lungs. The air is heavy with brine and warm sand, and I suddenly feel so relaxed. I’ve always loved the ocean. Not just because it’s beautiful, but because of what it represents. It feels… endless. Uncontrollable. Wild. All things I was never allowed to be. Growing up, I had to be steady for my younger sisters. I had to be reliable. The calm in every storm. There was no room for chaos. No room for mistakes. No room for me to just… be. But the ocean? It doesn’t care about expectations. It crashes. It swells. It devours and gives and takes without asking for permission. Maybe that’s why I always felt drawn to it. Because no matter how much I had to be in control everywhere else, here? Here, I can finally breathe.

And then I slip. The dirt beneath my feet crumbles faster than I can react, my balance vanishing as gravity yanks me forward. I scream, but the fall never comes⁠— Because Maddox grabs me. His hands lock around my waist, yanking me back against his chest with a sharp, commanding strength.

Then Maddox exhales, a slow, measured breath against my neck. “You really need to be more careful, angel.”

Over my shoulder, I hear Asher huff. “Jesus, Ari. Can you not almost kill yourself for one second?”

I pull away from Maddox, my breath still shaky as I turn to face Asher. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” I snap.

And as I stand between them, my heart still hammering, I realize it wasn’t Asher who saved me. It wasn’t Asher who reacted first, who moved without thinking, who caught me before I could hit the jagged cliffs below. It was Maddox. Asher was too busy scolding me. Maddox was too busy making sure I was safe.

Morality isn’t something I cling to, but privacy? That’s different. After twenty years in a maximum-security hellhole, I know what it means to have your every movement watched, your dignity stripped away one humiliating inch at a time. Some things you just don’t take from a person. I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders, shaking off the memory.

Knowing her, she’s reading on her Kindle, and I’m bored as fuck, so once I’m back in the bedroom I’m sleeping in, I log into her account from my phone. A small perk of being one of the best cybersecurity specialists to ever exist. My lips twitch into a smirk as I see what she’s reading. “Thirsty for the Terrible Monster,” I say out loud. A monsterfucker romance. I shake my head, amused, and immediately sync my page to hers. Might as well read along, right?

Maddox lol thats right, might as well read along lmao

I decide that I’m done watching her, because right now, all I want to do is consume her, body and soul.

A calloused finger traces the dip of my waist. Lazy. Unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. As it slowly dives lower, through my dark curls to the pulsing bud I need him to touch more than my next breath, a ragged whimper escapes my lips. And just like that, reality cracks through the haze. Asher. The reminder stings, sharp and sudden, slicing through the heat curling low in my stomach. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t want this. But then Maddox’s finger dips lower, circles exactly where I need him most, and the guilt? It shatters. It drowns beneath the ache of how much I want to see what happens. The pressure coils tighter, hotter, until there’s nothing left but need. No logic. No rules. Just him.

“Good girl. So needy for me. Now, turn around.”

“You missed me,” he says low, his breath warm against my temple. “Didn’t you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. If I speak, I’ll unravel. Because I did. I really fucking missed the way he makes me feel small—protected. Desired.

“I didn’t,” I try, but the words are too soft, too unsure.

“You don’t have to lie,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along the shell of my ear. “I get it. You didn’t want to miss me.” He pauses as his hand flattens against my rib cage, warm and anchoring. “But you did.”

“Tell me no,” he whispers. “And I’ll walk away.”

But there is no control. Not with him. Not here. Not when every inch of me is screaming to let go.

“I’ll let go…” He leans in, his breath warm against my cheek. “…if you can prove you’re not already soaking for me.”

The bastard. I shift my hips and squeeze my thighs together, and I can feel how soaked I already am. My lips press together, and he smiles again.

“You can try to fight me, little warrior.” His voice is low, rough velvet, dragging over my skin like a promise. “I know that’s what you do. What you’ve always done.” His other hand traces my collarbones, trailing lower, his fingertips skimming my bare skin. “Always carrying everything. Always in control. Always making the decisions. Always settling, melding yourself into what other people expect of you instead of fighting for what you deserve.”

“But you don’t have to do that with me.”

“You don’t need to fight me, Ari. And I know you don’t want to.” A shiver rolls through me. “You don’t need to think.” His grip locks just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Not with me.”

“Let me take care of you.”