Petrify

35. The Pianist

The Pianist

By the time I hand Henri off to Ms. Byrne for dinner, I am exhausted.

I pushed him during our lessons today, per Leo and Mariane’s request. I’ve learned his boundaries these last weeks, the limit to which I can push him, before his eyes get glassy and his lip begins to curl, before the frustration grows too large for his heart to bear.

I skip the meal, my stomach too uneasy to even think of eating, and wait for Bastien at the piano.

Watching the clock tick past seven, wondering where he is.

Always thinking of him, remembering the rough edge of his voice, the gentle brutality of his hands.

The tenderness in his eyes when he laid down with me the other night.

“How was your lesson with Henri?”

I turn around. He’s standing by the window, an easy set to his shoulders, his true face hidden by that white mask. “Are you asking me how my day went?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I just—you haven’t asked me before.”

I think he scowls under his mask, irritated that it’s true. “A mistake I’m fixing right now.” He steps closer, reaching up and curling a strand of my hair around his finger. “Tell me.”

“It went—fine.” I don’t know if I should go on, if he wants details, or if he’s just trying to be nice. He seemed confident enough in Henri the other night. Shouldn’t he know, anyway? Doesn’t he hear everything? “He’s taking an interest in the piece on his own.”

“See, didn’t I tell you?”

My face heats. I turn away, shuffling the sheets of music on the stand, giving my hands something to do. “It doesn’t mean we’ll be ready in time. We have less than two weeks.”

His arms suddenly appear on either side of me, grabbing the music and putting it down. “Sit.”

A small part of me wants to be defiant, tell him No. That there’s so much I want to say to him, so much I want to ask, that I can think of nothing else.

I sit, moving over so he has room next to me. Our thighs touch. He’s still a head taller than me. He spreads his hands out on the keys, and I’m captivated, studying the valleys between his knuckles, the pale skin of his fingers. I know how his hands feel. I know how our bodies fit together.

He begins playing, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s not reading the music in front of us. He’s playing the Prelude.

The song spills out of him like it’s his own creation. He commands the melody, stretching it thin and flying through the notes, moving across the keyboard without a second thought. I’m still mesmerized by his hands, but now for an entirely different reason.

It would take me a few weeks at the very least to match his confidence in the piece. And Henri…

He holds the notes, stopping only part way through the tune, letting them ring.

“You’re… very good,” I say.

Of course he is. I’ve heard the stories. This is what Leo and Mariane want—the son who plays with the effortless ease of a master. Is he showing off? Is he goading me, rubbing it in that Henri can’t do, that I might not be able to do this either?

I go to stand, but he grabs my wrist. It’s gentle, but I still I pull away quickly, jerking from his grasp.

“Why do you do that?” he asks. Then he stands too, so we’re face to face.

“Do what?”

“You keep pushing me away.”

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to just let you touch me whenever you want?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “I thought we agreed.”

“We agreed that you’d help me with the music.”

“You know it’s more than that.” He shakes his head. “You know that we are more than that now.”

I laugh, a sad sound. “And what are we other than two lonely people who fuck?”

The vulgarity of saying it out loud makes me flinch.

“Lonely?” He cocks his head. “Are you lonely, Mallary?”

“Why would you care?”

“Are you serious?”

I laugh, backing away, because this doesn’t make sense, he doesn’t make sense. “Bastien, you don’t have to pretend—”

“I am not pretending,” he says with such vehemence that it scares me. “You asked me to leave you alone during the day. I don’t leave you alone because I want to.”

“Oh my god.”

“If it were up to me, we’d be chained together. You wouldn’t go one second without being by my side. None of these other things would matter. I’d give you everything you’d ever need.”

“Do you hear yourself?” My hands begin to tremble.

These promises are too big, too much. He doesn’t even know me. Except he says he does. He’s told me too many times that he knows everything. And still he crawls into my bed.

“Mallary, you’re not listening.” He reaches for me, a hand outstretched, but I don’t take it. His voice is a whisper that has my every nerve ending attuned to him. “Please. What will it take? I’ll do anything. For you.”

“You can’t just say things like that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. I’m not pretending. I mean it when I say I’d get rid of them all if it means you’ll look at me again.”

“Stop.” My fingers press into my eyes. The floor tilts like I'm standing on the deck of a ship, my feet stumbling beneath me until my hips find the piano again. The room only stops spinning when I open my eyes—when I look at him.

“You still don’t know, do you?” He advances on me.

“Don’t know what?” My fingernails dig into the wood of the piano.

He just laughs, and then he’s too close. There’s nowhere to go. I tell myself to flinch, to cower away from him—to feel afraid, to see him as any sane person would.

All I can think about is that I hope whatever he’s about to tell me doesn’t make me want to run away.

There’s a smug satisfaction in his smile. “Take a guess.”

“Are you playing with me?”

“Yes,” he says, immediately. “We’ve been playing this game since the beginning, Mallary. Jumping around the truth. Acting like we can be normal.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Yes you do.” He moves closer, the smile faltering. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Hear what?” I want to lean away. To put distance between us. “That you’re crazy?”

“No.” His eyelids lower, his gaze flicking to my lips. “Yes. Just say it.”

The look he’s giving me—like he wants nothing more than to skin me alive just to see what color I’d bleed. Like he wants to break me apart, piece by piece. Cut open my skull, just to have access to my thoughts. Suck all the air out of the room, just to see how desperate I can really become.

I force myself to look away, squeezing my eyes shut.

No.

They wouldn’t have hired me if—

If—

Rough fingers grip my jaw, forcing me to face him.

To face what he is. What he’s done.

“Say it.”

“You’re a murderer.” As soon as I speak the words, I realize how ridiculous they sound. How impossible.

But I know it’s not impossible.

Killers walk amongst the living everyday. They blend in. They look just like the rest of us.

He’s silent for a moment, maybe deciding how much more to reveal. “My first was an accident.”

His first kill.

“One day, she put her hands on me for the last time. My nanny. I was only ten.” His fingers tighten on my jaw. “I told them it was an accident. Self defense. But I wrapped my fingers around her throat and didn’t let go until the whites of her eyes turned purple.”

I force myself not to look away this time.

“Then I was curious. And I didn’t particularly like my tutor. He had even less patience. Why not rid myself of that problem, too?”

He says it like he relishes the memory.

“They already had trouble explaining away two deaths, scrubbing the media of any mention of something strange going on at Beauchene manor. They threw around the idea of sending me away. But wouldn’t that look suspicious?” The words are bitterly sardonic. “There’s more pity to be had in a dead son.”

He told me I should be afraid, and I am, but there’s also this strange numbness settling over me, this sense of understanding, and that scares me more.

“And the maintenance worker? Burned to death at the radiator?”

His eyes twinkle. “I held him there against the metal until his flesh melted and charred to a crisp. Want to know why? He was too curious, putting the pieces together. So they told me to take care of him.”

And he keeps telling me that we’re the same.

“Don't you have any remorse?”

“Should I?”

“It's wrong, Bastien.”

“Is it any more wrong than what they’ve done? You act as though these people are perfect angels. I can assure you that nine times out of ten, it’s deserved.”

“And who are you to make that judgment?”

His fingers trail down from my jaw, loosely circling my wrist. “This house, this estate—no one within is safe. There's no way out. Not for you.”

My eyes burn. “Like I'm some animal you can hunt?”

He shakes his head. “We're all animals. None of us are good. Things are not so black and white, Mallary.”

“Bastien, you can’t just—”

“I can,” he says. “I can and I will. I have. I don’t mourn any of them, and you shouldn’t, either.”

Something in me recoils so harshly, I flinch away from him. “It's wrong,” I say, “it’s disgusting.”

“Don't pretend you’re on some moral high ground now. Why do you feel bad for them?” His fingers intertwine with mine. I can't pull away. “There’s no use in feeling ashamed of what we have to do.”

“We?” I step back, trying to pull my hands from his, but his fingers are tight.

“I, then. What I have to do.” He exhales.

“But you don’t have to. I know that your circumstances have been out of your control, but—”

This time the laugh under his breath has a self deprecating lilt. “My circumstances? Oh Mallary. Keep telling yourself you had no choice, if that’s what helps you sleep at night. But eventually, you’ll have to get over this.”

I scowl at him, and wrench myself away, my fingers burning from his tight grip. “You're a killer. And you’re okay with that?”

I can hear his smile and can see the amusement in his eyes. “You’ll come around, don’t worry.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“Get away from me or I’ll scream.”

“Do it.” Then he’s leaning closer again, so close, nearly brushing his plaster nose to mine. “But I don’t think you will. You know, deep down, we are like-minded. You would’ve screamed already if you were afraid.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate that I have nothing to say to that.

“Close your eyes.”

Defiant, I stare at him.

Until the intensity in his gaze is too much. He splits me in two.

I obey.

I can hear the soft tap of the plaster mask as he lays it on the piano.

“I knew you weren’t afraid of me the moment you called my name.” His lips suddenly brush against mine. Soft and familiar and rough. Holding each side of my face, crushing our lips together in a kiss so all-consuming.

I gasp for air. “I am afraid.”

“Maybe.” He steps closer, in between my knees. “But you understand.”

On top of the Steinway, with a murderer between my knees, his cock pressing to the soft flesh of my thigh, I let him kiss me. I let him trail his lips across my jaw, down to my throat, holding me in, leaving behind a scattering of bruises like a constellation on my shoulder.

“You understand what it’s like,” he says, traveling up my throat.

“What what’s like?” I mumble, letting my head fall back to allow him access to as much of my skin as possible. Each kiss is a brand, his rough stubble scraping, his teeth nipping and biting down.

I hear a laugh under his breath, and then his hands bracket my waist, pulling me closer to the edge of the piano, pressing my center against his hard cock. A hand fists in the hair at my nape, tugging my head even further back, arching my spine. Tears bloom in my lashes.

“Is this why you won’t leave me alone?” I breathe.

“This,” he says, a dark edge to his voice, “and how pliable you are. I can do whatever I want to you.”

I open my mouth to reply, but then he bites down on the space between my neck and collarbone, hard enough I think he must have drawn blood.

I choke on a whimper. The fist in my hair jerks downward, forcing my back to meet the piano while he continues to bite at my skin, looming over me, grinding his cock against me.

I don’t care that I’m lying atop this ridiculously expensive instrument. I don’t worry about breaking it. I just want him.

My fingers curl in his hair, tugging him closer, holding him to me so he can’t leave, can’t pull away.

And when I open my eyes, I have a perfect view of the door, upside down—a perfect view of Reece standing there, petrified into stone, watching Bastien creep towards ravishing me out in the open.

Our gazes meet for just a moment.

And then he’s quickly ducking out of the room without a word.

I shove against Bastien. “Get off.”

He lets me, untangling his fist from my hair. My skin stings from his claiming bites, pain arcing through my throat, across my chest, the skin warm with his saliva. He quickly rights his mask. And though he steps back, his eyes narrow. “That’s fine, we can keep playing this game.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“What, you want him to like you?” He doesn’t go far. Only moves away enough to let me sit up again.

“How will I explain this?”

“You won’t,” he murmurs, his fingers finding my jaw again. His thumb runs across my bottom lip, softly at first. “Don’t waste your time. He won’t get you like I do.”

“Baz, I’m not—”

He silences me with his thumb between my teeth, pressing on my tongue.

“Let him be confused. Let him start rumors. Who cares.” His thumb slips even further back. “You and I aren’t like them.”

With both hands planted against his chest, I shove until he relents. “Rumors. If any sort of rumors get around—then they’ll hate me. And if they hate me, I lose this job.” I slide off the piano, straightening my sweater, brushing out my hair.

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just—focus on the music. Focus on me. I will take care of the rest.”

“You keep saying that."

“Nothing has happened to you yet, has it?” It’s the first time I hear real frustration in his voice, a hint of his anger.

“Goodnight.” The muscle in my jaw aches. I don’t look at him over my shoulder as I stalk out the room. If I can catch up to Reece, then maybe I can explain—

What, exactly?

That I almost just let the Ghost he warned me about fuck me on top of the piano?

The halls are empty. He’s disappeared, vanished into thin air. Unsettlingly quiet, the only sound is my heavy breathing. At this hour, all the staff are together, on the other side of the house, relieved of their duties for the day.

And then I wonder what Reece wanted. He knew I would likely be practicing. He knew where I would be.

Threads of dismay weave through my thoughts. Bastien might not be worried, but I am. He has nothing to lose.

I do.

The threat of being ostracized is suddenly so suffocating, wrapping its fist around my throat, that panic begins to shake through each of my limbs. My steps are unsteady, my hands numb. The urge to spill everything to all of them, just so they hear it from me first—

With a shuddering breath, I find myself alone.

Baz hasn’t followed me. Reece ran away.

I am so terribly, sickeningly alone.

Yet I know, I know, of the two men, only one of them wouldn’t scorn me if they knew the truth.