Page 34 of Petrify

“It doesn’t matter. You’re the performer. The piece is yours.”

“But I don’t have the whole thing,” I say. “How can I possibly know what to convey if I don’t know how it ends?”

“Makeit yours,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice, like he’s smiling behind that mask. The thought of it hasgoosebumps pebbling on my skin. I imagine he’s all jagged teeth, the mask the only thing standing between his appetite and me.

My heart hasn’t calmed, not with him so close.

“It’s getting late,” I hear myself say. I clear my throat before standing from the bench, gathering the sheet music. “I have to go.”

But as I begin to turn I realize he’s standing right behind me, only the bench between us—leaning onto the instrument with an arm on either side of me—caging me in.

He’s so close I can smell something sweet, almost floral, on him. His mask is still stark white, eerily plain and perfect, smooth like porcelain, but the eyes behind it?—

He steals all my air. I jam my eyes shut again. He’s so close all I would have to do is lean back an inch and we’d touch.

Sharp wolf’s teeth, inches away, eager to bite down.

“You’ve done well today,” he says.

How could I have ever thought he was truly a ghost? Not with that rich timbre, or the heat emanating from his body, or the whisper of his breath against my neck.

Had he been affected when he saw me in the bath? Had it been a trick of my mind, seeing those dark eyes behind his mask wandering across my figure? I haven’t thought of anything else these past few nights.

The two of us, alone.

Somehow, he’d made his way into the bathroom. If it’s true I’m staying in his old wing, there’s no doubt he knew exactly what room he was entering.

And ifthat’strue, he must have been waiting to seeme.

Naked.Touching myself.

Deep inside, something constricts near my spine.

“Thank you.” I wince through a shuddering breath.

There’s a pause, and I wonder what it is that he wants to say. Stupidly, I wonder if he can read my mind.

“I have more for you,” he says, and goosebumps rise on my neck, my arms, at the warmth of his breath. “I… have more to give.”

Turn around.

He’s so close, I can’t breathe, can’t think. I’m choking, lungs begging for air. Maybe his fingertips dance along my arm, maybe it’s all in my head. Heat, simmering under my skin, tightening in my belly. Reading into his words like an idiot, and falling for it all the same.

“More music,” he continues, his whisper so soft, only for me. “More…”

I think that if he doesn’t touch me, I’ll burn into flames. I think that if he does, I’ll lose my mind.

Rational thought catches up to me, and I’m jerking away, stumbling around the piano and putting as much distance between us as I can. Air rushes into my lungs, but my heart is still pounding away at my ribcage, the thrill of his presence still dampening the space between my thighs.

Not again.

The piano a barrier, I watch as he slowly straightens to full height. And the fact that he’s wearing a black knit sweater is so fucking humanizing I almost laugh again. It hides his neck, his hands the only exposed skin.

I glance away.

“Come back to the piano, Mallary.”

I shake my head. “It’s nine o’clock.”