Page 46 of Petrify

I don’t need it.

I don’t need the memories tied to it.

It’s better to justforget. Move forward.

I take a breath like I do at the piano. Ready myself for bed.

The air in the room changes, like the oppressive weight before a storm.

His eyes on me, boring into my spine.

I swallow, tongue a bit dry, and set down my hairbrush. In the mirror, I am alone. No ghosts peeking over my shoulder.

But I turn around, and in the doorway to the closet is his figure. This time, there’s enough light to see every inch of his imposing stature.

My breath hitches in my throat.

His mask is plain, pale white, covering the entirety of his face, only his dark eyes peering out at me. Dark eyes that can seeeverything. An unruly mess of black curls on his head. His hands—bare—at his sides, flexing and unflexing, and a sudden warmth pools within me. My body responding to his nearness, remembering the brief pleasure from last night.

His chest rises and falls with each breath. He’s studying me, waiting for me to scream, I know it.

That’s all it would take to end this.

“Bastien?” I say his name, my voice loud in the silence, even though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

His fingers go still at that.

I stand on shaky knees, hyperaware of that fact that I am again in only my night clothes—an old t-shirt and my panties.

How did he get into my room?

He isn’t a ghost. I felt him last night. He can’t just travel through walls.

I take a step toward him. He doesn’t move, other than his heavy breathing, the sound muffled against the mask. I burn with the urge to rip it off his face, to see the man underneath.

I’ve kissed those lips. I've felt his skin. And yet I don't know what he looks like.

His dark eyes are smoldering, and he’s tense, shoulders rigid, feet poised to move.

And I can see how aroused he is.

A jolt of desire runs through me, knowing what he’s capable of, knowing in some sick twisted way that he desires to overpower me, to take what he wants from me, and I’m almost powerless against him.

Almost.

I don’t step any closer. Curious about him as much as I think he is about me, I watch him right back, for his reactions, for the way he’s breathing so heavily like he’s holding back from lunging at me.

I reach for the hem of my t-shirt and lift it over my head. Bare myself to him.

An apology for kicking him out last time.

An invitation todo it again.

And then he’s stalking toward me, suddenly gripping my jaw and walking us all the way back so I’m hitting the vanity, bare back pressed against the cool mirror, bottles going flying. Fear arcs through me at how harshly he moves, stepping between my legs.

“Are you trying to provoke me?” he says. “Calling for me all day?”

My heart is racing. Fingers clutching at the vanity’s tabletop. “I was just?—”