Page 89 of Petrify
“She still sends Christmas cards—my mother. And she shows up on the occasional holiday. But never my birthday.”
“February.” He says. “The twentieth.”
“Yes.”
He shifts behind me, and with the movement I am now fully awake, because he turns me in his arms while reaching above his head—pulling the mask down over his face. Disappointment cinches in my chest, even when, for a brief second, I see the line of his jaw, the pale pink of his lips.
“Are you mad at me?” I whisper before I can think better of it.
The way his eyes narrow, I know he’s frowning.He’s frowning. And it takes him so long to answer that by the time he speaks, I’m sure he’ll say he loathes me, even though days have passed since I ran away from him. “You think I hate you because you took my mask.”
What I hate is how easily he crawls into my head. What I hate is how much this matters to me.
“No,” he says. “I had my fun with you after, didn’t I? I think that settles the score.”
“But you don’t want me to see.”
“Not… yet.” And then his eyes flutter closed. “I do. If it’s anyone, I want it to be you.”
And something inside me preens. After everything, he wants me.
“We’ll have to do something for your birthday,” he says softly. “It’s not too far out now.”
His chest rises and falls beneath my palms. If I wanted, I could lay my head against his heart and drift back to sleep. We could remain here all night. We could do thiseverynight, I think. I wonder, if under different circumstances, in another world, if this is the version of him I’d always see. I wonder if we’d even cross paths.
I watch the glowing embers of the fire throw sparks. “When isyourbirthday?”
He’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s forgotten to answer me. I have the heartbreaking thought that it’s likely no one celebrated him in over a decade.
“December. The longest night of the year.”
I frown, peering up at him again. “That’s passed already.”
He nods.
“Happy birthday,” I say, wanting nothing more than to reach for him. So I do.
My fingers brush against the white plaster. He’s frozen but this—this is the test of trust. I don’t rip it away like I had in my anger, I lift the mask just enough to expose his jaw again, his lips. There’s a few days’ worth of stubble across his jaw, framing those lips that have been on me so many times, and yet I’ve never had a chance to reallylook.
His fingers tighten at my waist.
Without lifting the mask any higher, I lean closer, anticipation stealing my breath as I softly press my lips to his.
This time, it’s different. The kiss is gentle and needy and so, so tender, and he hardly moves, except to eagerly lean forward.
His embrace is everything I’ve ever needed, strong and assuring, his arms winding around my middle. He wraps me up like he’s my cocoon and inside him I am safe to reveal the real me. My fingers wind into his wavy black hair.
“You should have told me,” I say.
“I must’ve forgotten.” He sounds breathless. “I won’t next time.”
Chapter 43
The Pianist
When the sunlight comes,I am alone, and for the rest of the morning, it stays this way. The fire has gone out, a chill settling into every corner of the room. I don’t know where he’s disappeared off to. I rush to my bedroom in the east wing to change and make myself presentable, though it is unnecessary, as the house is still quiet. While I brush my teeth, I wonder if the night was all some fever dream. I can’t stop thinking of his face—the half that I did get to see—and his lips on mine.
The Beauchenes spend the day together, supposedly, and Henri has these next few days off from practicing. And yet, I still find myself returning to the piano mid-morning.
