I stare, as transfixed by the sight as I am by the music. If I reached out and touched it, would my hand slip through? Is that creature from the fountain waiting for me on the other side?
I take a step away, closer to Jude.
He sits at the piano, unaware of my presence. The soft cotton of his oxford shirt pulls gently across his back, tracing the shape of lean muscle as his hands move like liquid across the keys.
I recall those same fingers in my hair.
His lips on mine.
Our bodies pressed together.
Heat blooms low in my abdomen.
The spot under my collar burns like ice.
And I wonder. Is this what masochists feel?
Pleasure in pain.
A hunger for more.
Jude stops playing in the middle of a refrain.
The room goes jarringly silent.
He sits impossibly still. Achingly forlorn. Then—bang—he slams the lid shut. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
My heart leaps.
The rift crackles.
He pushes to his feet and kicks the stool out from under him.
It clatters across the floor and slides to a stop.
With his hands curled into fists, he turns. And for one raw, unguarded moment, before he sees me, his expression is ravaged.
I step toward him.
But he lifts his hand in a gesture to stop. To stay away. “When were you going to tell me?”
“T-tell you what?”
“Really, Selah?”
I swallow, unsure. For all I know, he went to the crypt and found the empty jewelry box. He’s upset I didn’t invite him to join. “I went to St. Fortuna’s this morning and got the gemstones.”
“I’m not talking about the gemstones.”
I bite my lip.
His eyes burn as he crosses the room, as he stands in front of me. Ever so gently, he brushes my hair over my shoulder. My heart pounds like a caged bird. I wish I’d zipped up my coat. Opted for a turtleneck instead of this shirt with a scooped neck.
With his attention fixed on my clavicle, he hooks his thumb beneath the fabric and draws it aside.
His chest rises, sharp and uneven.
“Twig told you,” I whisper, frustration seeping into every syllable.
