Page 103 of Petrify

“In a minute,” I say.

“I’m debating locking you inside for good.”

“Baz, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know. But I want you to stay.”

I sigh. “My contract will run out eventually.” It’s a flimsy argument.

“I don’t care about the contract.”

My cheeks turn aflame with that spark of indignation. “Well I can’t stay past the end date, unless they sign me on again, and there’s no way?—”

“Don’t worry about that.” He leans closer. “Iwant you to stay.”

“What about the party? What if I’m scouted?”

He’s suddenly moving closer, crawling the short distance before he’s in my face, and instinctively I move back, until I’m lying on my back and he’s hovering above me. This is our normal.

“Will you stay?”

“Baz, you know that I need to go back.”

Something flashes in his eyes. “Mallary,” he says, taunting, a derisive edge to his voice. “Answer my question.”

My lips part to answer, but nothing comes, because I can’t stay, not forever. My time here is temporary, it always was, and I shouldn’twantto stay—I should’ve run home long ago. I should’ve made my escape the first time I saw his figure at the foot of my bed. I should’ve put the manor far behind me. A ghost story, a bad fit. I shouldn’t have stayed.

And yet.

My fingers are twisted in his hoodie, gripping the fabric as he hovers over me. I swallow the lump in my throat. “No.”

And immediately I know it’s the wrong answer—this tenuous understanding between us shatters, this sense of calm, and a cool darkness shadows his eyes as he extricates himself from me. A small part of me expects his roughness, his greed—but notthis. Not him pulling away.

He’sneverpulled away from me before. He’s never put this wall up between us.

It’s my fault. It’s always my fault.

My heart jumps in panic as he leans back, sitting on his knees, peering down at me. My hands hover in the air as if to grab him again, and I realize how pathetic I must look, wanting and denying it once again, ready to splay myself open for this man whose face I’ve never truly seen.

And he gazes down at me as though the wool has been lifted from his eyes.

“Say something,” I beg.

“You won’t be leaving.”

“Okay.” The word wobbles on my tongue.

“If I am stuck here, if I’ve been left to rot within these walls—then so are you.”

And still I need him to touch me, to lean back down and bite me, hurt me, dig his fingers so deep that it’s true, I really am trapped here.

“You aren’t for them,” he says. “You aren’t for my father. Or for Henri. Or the next Jason Howard. You are forme.”

“Okay.”

“Mine to play with. Mine to torture. Mine to tear apart.”

Thisistorture. His hands flex at his sides.