Petrify

54. The Ghost

The Ghost

Mallary whirls around and backs away from me, cornering herself against a floor length mirror, eyes wide in the dark. “Have you come to kill me?”

I almost laugh. That she even asks means she knows the gravity of what she’s done. “I’ve come to collect what’s mine.”

She’s just as beautiful as she was three months ago. It’s seeing the freckles scattered across her cheeks that hits me like a punch to the fucking stomach—we are so entangled that I’m not sure how I was able to even breathe without her these last months. She must feel the same, I know she does.

“While I’ve dreamt of you stained in blood every day since we last saw each other, you would be dead if I wanted you to be.”

It’s cute, the way her eyes narrow in suspicion. The wrinkle between her brows that betrays her irritation.

She’s irritated. With me. Adorable.

“Then what is it?”

“What is it?” Every inch between us is too far a distance. I tangle my fist in her hair, wrench her skull back. Her gasp is exquisite.

“You thought you could get away from me?” The look she gives me goes straight to my dick. It’s almost like she wants me to pin her to the mattress and make her beg for forgiveness.

She ran from me. When she promised she wouldn’t.

“No,” she whispers. “But I didn’t think—”

“What?” My grip in her hair tightens. And the sound that comes from her mouth isn’t out of pain. She wants this.

“You took too long. I thought maybe you weren’t coming.” Her lips look perfectly bruisable. Her lashes flutter, her wide eyes darkening with desire.

“You ran from me.”

“I knew you would chase me.”

This game we’ve been playing since the beginning—

She wants me crawling behind her like a dog, waiting with bated breath for every word out of her mouth.

These three months have been too long. Watching her from street corners, tracking her every move, wishing I could startle her awake again with my cock between her legs.

My hand and the memory of her isn’t enough, not when it could’ve been so easy to disable the security systems and have my way with her.

But I had to wait until Henri was gone. I had to get her alone.

And now my blood is thrumming with the need to claim her again, to remind her just how good we are together.

Her lips part when my hand trails to her hip, my cock brushing against her stomach.

There are too many layers of clothing between us.

Without another thought, I’m turning her around, wrenching down the thin little shorts over her thighs. My belt is undone in a second, and then I’m thrusting forward, the head of my cock sliding through the wetness between her legs.

“You missed me.” I can’t hide the gratification it brings me—the groan erupts from me before I can stop it.

She’s braced against the mirror, looking me straight in the eyes, gasping at every glide of my cock against her clit, sensitive and eager.

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“Did you touch yourself every night to the thought of me?”

The familiar smell of her, her shampoo, her perfume, is maddening. I nip at her shoulder, her throat. I want to bite down, pierce her skin with my teeth. Make a permanent mark, tattoo my imprint into her flesh.

Her face reddens.

“You did,” I whisper, “because no one can give you what I give you. No one knows you like I do.”

I grip her jaw and force her to watch us through the mirror. Her nipples are pebbled in the cool air, her limbs shaking, but I know it’s not fear. She wants this. She wants me.

“You’ve thought about every single time I fucked you, haven’t you?” The flesh of her neck is warm. She is soft beneath my fingers skating across her throat. I get the sudden urge to squeeze. But my thumb pressed against her pulse is reminder enough.

I would never hurt her this way, not really. Still her eyes flash with something wanton.

“I thought you might have died,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “But I was too scared to ask anyone.”

I notch the head of my cock at her entrance. “Does this feel like I am dead?”

“No.”

She leans back against me, tilting her hips.

She wants me deeper, she wants me to shove through to the hilt.

How well I know her body, only after a few weeks.

It’s like whatever deity has decided to curse me gave me this one consolation, this one concession for pleasure. This one creature for my own.

“Why did you wait so long?”

I hold her in place. “Why did you run?” I counter. “I said five minutes, Mallary.”

“I just—” But she’s gasping, moving her hips, her cunt chasing my cock.

“Not yet.” I’m unable to resist tracing my lips against her jaw, watching her struggle in the mirror. “Answer me.”

“You knew I couldn’t stay,” she says. “Not forever.”

“So you ran away and made yourself comfortable with my money.” The salt of her skin blooms on my tongue. I hold her so tightly she can’t move, her fingers leaving smudges against the glass. Even in the dark I can see how flushed she is, how needy.

“Henri’s money,” she says.

“Is that all you wanted? Was this all some ploy to get your hands in the family fortune?”

“You know it wasn’t.” Her voice softens. “You can’t be angry that I care for him. He doesn’t have anyone else.”

“I have no one else.” I turn her face toward me. “And you left me.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s spinning in my arms, leaning forward, so she can grab my face and press her lips to mine. All the air leaves my lungs.

Then my back collides with her bed, after a single shove, and she’s climbing over my lap. Her thighs spread wide, her wet cunt landing right on my cock. A string of expletives fall from my lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. She moves her hips just enough to torture me.

“Show me how much,” I say.

Ever the obedient supplicant, she sinks onto me with greed, dripping already, smearing her arousal all over her thighs. She’s tight, unstretched, but her wince of pain is that much more erotic.

“God—fuck.”

She stills when her ass meets my thighs, breathing through the feeling of my cock buried deep, all at once, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me.”

She listens. Her pussy flutters around me and it takes everything in me not to grab her hips and thrust. She’s warm and wet and solid on top of me and I can’t fucking believe this is real, that I’m inside her again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. The tips of her fingers trace from my brow to my chin, like she can’t believe I am real, either.

I worried she would scream when she saw me. I worried she would tell me she hates me, that I am too dark an affliction to stand. I worried I would never get this again. Three months I left her alone. Let her get on her feet. Find a new rhythm.

I worried she wouldn’t miss me.

She leans down, hovering over me, her short hair a curtain around our faces.

“You cut it.” I tuck a strand behind her ear.

“Something new.” The corner of her mouth quirks. “You like it?”

“Mallary, you’re gorgeous.” There’s more I want to say. I could write entire poems about her. I could write an entire symphony just for her. Then maybe she’ll understand how I feel.

Her eyes widen again, a sound stalling in her throat, before her lips are pressed against mine. She kisses me with fervor, sliding her tongue into my mouth at the same time she cants her hips, nudging me deeper.

Fuck.

If anything, she will be the death of me.

“How have you not been arrested?”

An hour later, in the kitchen, she insists on preparing a drink for me. All she has is tea. Something pink and floral and sweet. I can’t tell her no.

I give her a look. “No one was arrested for what happened to me. Leo paid well for discretion.” If he hadn’t, the truth would have come out long ago.

Even in his death, it remains buried. “And if someone did have a tendency to let things slip, well, he paid Desmond the most to clean up all those messes.”

She’s put the marble island between us. Her tea cup sits steaming, untouched.

“Why, you wish I was arrested?”

Her eyes flick up to mine. “No.”

I lean forward. “Arnie is still dead, Mallary.”

To the public, Henri is the only Beauchene left.

No one suspects that I have been alive all this time.

No one knows, except for Desmond, a few of the house staff, and her.

No one knows that I am alive, and no one knows that I murdered Leo and Mariane Beauchene.

Their passing was a tragic accident, nothing more.

“We’ve gotten away with it.”

“You got away with it.”

I stand and round the island. I’ve given her enough space. “Back to this again? Still pretending you’re innocent?”

She glares up at me. “No.” She huffs. “I’ve moved on. I’m starting a new life. I just don’t want to think about them anymore. Not when I need to focus on Henri, and on—”

“Our music.”

She goes quiet.

“Have you forgotten our bargain?” I grin. It’s so easy to tease her. At the house, she was often quick to anger, and nothing has changed, even when she knows I am her ally.

“I’ve played your waltz,” she says.

“Our waltz.”

“At the party. A few people were interested. I got their contacts. And now I’m working with Violet Lavigne, so I think our bargain is fulfilled.”

I knew this, obviously, after following her for weeks.

I know she’s playing in clubs for the upper crust. The understudy roles with the symphony will soon be a thing of the past. I know, because I’ve attended so many of these clubs, tucked away in a corner so she wouldn't see me, just to listen to her play again. Just to remind myself that she wasn’t a fantasy.

“You haven’t given me every single one of your nights,” I say. “And I am owed about three months’ worth. With interest.”

She frowns. “That’s impossible.”

I grab her hip, pull her to me. “Then you better get started.”

“Baz, wait.”

Baz. My name is music on her tongue.

“What is this?” She gestures between us, taking another step back. “What are we doing? Why are you here? Truly?”

“Because I want you.” With one stride I’m cornering her against the marble counter. The air is sweet with the scent of the tea. “Because three months without you was three months without air. It was fucking torture. I need your music. I need you, Mallary.”

Her big brown eyes widen. Does she see the Ghost, or does she see me?

“Why is this a surprise? You said you knew I’d chase you.”

“Yes.” She licks her lips. It’s proof of my control that I don’t lean down and kiss her again. “But you were so angry when I left. I thought maybe you’d hunt me down to kill me, too. For running.”

“Why would I kill someone I love?”

“You don’t—this isn’t—” Her face turns bright red. “We only spent a month together.”

“Four,” I counter.

“What?”

“Did you really think it took me three whole months to find you?”

Her jaw snaps shut.

“You think I didn’t account for the possibility you might run? I’ve been very patient. Waiting for you. Waiting for Henri to leave. Because I knew once I could touch you again, I wouldn’t let you go for days.”

“You let me run?”

I reach up to wind a strand of her hair around my finger, but it is too short now. I cup her cheek instead. “This life in the city, this is what you want. Right?”

She nods.

“Then let’s do it together. Let me in.” Her skin is so soft beneath my palm. I can’t stop touching her, afraid if I let go I’ll wake up. “I’ll keep writing you music. You know we work so well together.”

Her lashes flutter. “And you want me to give you my nights?”

“I want you to give me everything.”

“What will you do if I say no?”

“I won’t go far. Without you, I am nothing.”