Page 57 of Petrify

“Yes,” he says, his eyes flicking down to my lips this time. “That’s how things are here.”

“I won’t?—”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” His chest still rises with deep breaths, the only evidence that he’s affected, he’s as out of breath as I am. When we are this close, when our bodies touch, I forget everything, every warning. In only a few short days, he’s attuned every fiber of my being tohim.

I bite my lip, my fingers just barely brushing against his shirt.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice so soft I almost think I imagined it. “Tell me that you want me.”

I exhale a laugh. “It’s a bit too late for that.”

He doesn’t move, and I swear I feel his thumb brush against my naked hip, a soft, tender caress so at odds with everything else. He makes me forget my fear, like he consumes it all, whetting his appetite on my desire and terror.

Everyone is afraid of the Ghost.

But the way he looks at me, his deep, dark eyes searching mine, I begin to wonder if what he said that first night, that he and I are the same, is true.

“Yes.” I clutch the fabric of his shirt. “Yes.”

Chapter 27

The Ghost

She leaves not long after,claiming with a blush that she needs to go practice. I let her go. It takes everything in me not to grab her. Alone again, I am immediately cold as death.

A few inches of water remain in the tub.

Maybe with her, all my sins can wash away. It tastes of her bath oil, something sweet.

After what we’ve done, I think maybe I really am a demon, cursed to haunt this house, possessed by some vengeful spirit that only she can tame. But it wants to hurt her, too. It wants to make her cry, watch her bleed.

Her essence is inside of me now. She’ll never be able to get rid of me.

Chapter 28

The Pianist

“What happened to Arnie?”I ask Ms. Wilder in the afternoon when she brings Henri back to the practice room.

A stubborn exhaustion lingers behind my eyes, like every hour of sleep was restless, though I don’t remember waking one time until the sun was brightening my room.

Her lips press into a thin line. “I’m sure someone has told you.”

“The gist, yes,” I say.

“It’s best not to bring it up.”

“But I think I could better, um, serve the family and Henri if I knew what, exactly, to avoid talking about.” It’s a valid excuse, if you ask me.

Henri ignores our conversation, making his way toward one of the windows with a book in his hand.

“Arnie passed too soon, Miss Doyle.” Ms. Wilder turns to me fully. Her gray hair is braided down her spine, and the thin bones of her wrists peek out of the sleeves of her shirt, one of them adorned with a simple yet expensive-looking gold bracelet.

No one really talks about it.

He doesn’t know he’s dead.

“I just—” I swallow, unsure how to breach the topic without offending her. Surely she knows something, having worked for the family for so long.