18. The Ghost
The Ghost
Her favorite spot is the window overlooking the east lawn with the pond and the gray half-dead forest. If I lose sight of her for a moment, chances are good that this is where I’ll find her.
Sitting in the window seat, knees curled up to her chest, and nose buried in a book.
There’s no reason for the staff to come up this way, and because of my promise, I can’t disturb her, either.
Even though I want so desperately to sit within her vicinity. I want to breathe her in.
Her mind is strange. She is so afraid. Afraid of the world and afraid of herself.
Her past, the future she yearns for—I want to know all of it. I want to hear it in her words.
I want her to admit everything.
I want to know all her thoughts.
And I want her to know I am here.
Maybe she does. I catch her glancing around, still.
The passageways are well-hidden if you don’t know where to look for them.
There is nothing here that will remain a secret, no whispers I don’t hear, no room I cannot find my way into, no soul that leaves without my knowing.
Though, if I’m honest, my interest in the other residents of the house has disappeared since she walked in the door.
All of their hushed conversations, the amusing way they move around, as if scared I’ll pop out around the corner—I couldn’t care less anymore.
Why would the busywork Leo puts Maxim up to interest me? Or his errand boy, Desmond—what does it matter to me who Leo is having blackmailed next?
Why would I give a fuck about any of it, when she is close enough to touch?
Leo and Mariane hired her for this very reason. If I’m distracted, I’ll be looking away from them.
And god, am I fucking distracted.
I’ve been so kind in promising to leave her be when she’s encroaching on my space.
Even when I want to make her sing. I want to hear what kind of sweet cries she’ll make, and I want them to ring out, loud enough that they echo down the halls and everyone knows exactly what is being done to her.
I want them all to know the Ghost is real, and that at any wrong move I can again do what I did to Reece.
The Beauchenes might think that their offering will placate me for a long while.
They might think that she will find my hands around her throat soon enough.
That they will find her dead one morning with purple bruises blooming on that pretty neck.
And then they might think that I’ll forget about their transgressions.
But I will never forget. I won’t waste this gift, either.
I don’t follow her when she returns to the main floor to look after the boy for a few hours. I give her this reprieve.
The window seat is warm from her body, and it is so easy to settle there and press my palm against the wood. Imagining she is still here, that I am touching her, stirring up that strange lust.
I almost had her last night. She was beginning to bend to my will, that submissive little part of her that wants to be controlled. She wouldn’t have agreed to our bargain otherwise.
She wants to give in. I know it.
One palm skates across the old wood, seeking out her warmth, while the other presses against my dick. I can’t think about her without this feral desire awakening.
I’ve never wanted to sink my teeth into flesh so badly. I’ve never wanted to mark someone like this. I’ve never wanted to have someone for myself.
She’s a fucking affliction wreaking havoc on my mind.
My cock is hard. I only palm it through my pants. No one would come up here. It would be so easy to coat her favorite spot in my cum. Just the thought of her returning, those thighs sitting in the same spot I found my release—
I’m dizzy with the need to hunt her down. To drag her away from the rest of the family and into a dark passageway, where no one can find her. Where I could do whatever I want. Keep her for myself.
And I know she’d let me.
She fights it, this pull between us. But she feels it. She must.
And then I remember the sight of her in that bathtub, and I’m two seconds away from coming.
On my knees, I fall forward, pressing my face to the warmth on the bench. It won’t be long before this trace of her fades away and nothing is left but cold, polished wood.
The mask shifts against my face, and for the first time in over a decade I wish the damned thing never existed.
Out of my mind, I almost rip it off, imagining the warmth of her skin through the plaster.
The heat of her skin against my face, my lips.
Inhaling deeply, as though the smell of her may still remain behind.
She won’t leave me.
She might not know it yet. But I’ll make her want to stay. The thought of leaving will be nauseating. I’ll make her need me. Make her fucking obsessed with me, just as obsessed as I am with her. She’ll feel this pain.
She won’t ever be alone again. And neither will I.
Not once she sees what my music—what I—can do for her.
My cock jerks. I force my eyes open, force myself to stand, to back away. Fist my hands at my sides. Clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.
I’m stupid for ever agreeing to her condition.
What right does she have to ask me to stay away? I haven’t remained here for fifteen years, just so an outsider can tell me what to do in my house. Over a decade locked inside, all for a girl to come along and change everything.
I feel every passing second of the afternoon, time stretching to unbearable lengths. Pacing in the dark, waiting for the sun to fall, for the house to become silent of everything but her music.
And when she plays my melody until the last possible moment, I know, I know, she’s resigned herself to being mine, wholly, completely.