Page 15 of Petrify

It doesn’t make sense.

“Maybe he meant to only run it for a second,” Daria says, shrugging a shoulder. “And then when his hand got caught…”

“He wasdegloved.” Em shakes her head, but she’s still eating her dinner. “He’ll be alright. They’ll reattach the skin?—”

“Ladies.” Ms. Byrne’s voice cuts through the chatter with finality. “Perhaps you can discuss the grim details with each otherafterwe’re done eating.”

Chapter 8

The Ghost

Not only wasshe doomed the moment she stepped within this estate’s gates, but so was I the moment she caught my attention.

I find myself seeking her out, wondering where she’s wandered off to in this house, wondering who she’s wasting her time speaking to, waiting, holding my breath, for the next sound of her slim fingers coaxing music from the piano.

It’s a shame that she’s not had a chance to play much, preoccupied as she is taking care of the kid.

Henri.

I hate it, this guise that she is here for him, when it is inevitable that she will succumb to me.

It wasn’t until night fell that I realized I’ve followed her all throughout the day—every moment eager to hear her voice, hoping she’ll glance at me, find me, even though I’m hidden away.

Will she scream? When she finally sees me, will she run in terror?

The glow from her laptop throws blue light across her features. Pretty dark hair that fades to an artificial blonde hue at the end, strands begging to be wrapped in my fists. A sloped nose, long lashes, the rest of her so, so soft.

I wonder, when her pupils dilate in fear, what color her irises will reveal? I want to get close enough to see. I want to count her freckles. I want to taste each breath.

I wonder how easily I’ll be able to get that pretty face to blush. I wonder how red I can make her.

She nods off some time past midnight, still sat up against the pillows, her laptop’s screen dark.

I tell myself it’s concern for that elegant, thin neck, leaning against the solid wood headboard, that draws me into the room. I’ll just set her laptop to the side, pull the throw blanket up to her chin. Make her comfortable.

But really, it’s the chance to hear each gentle inhalation, the faint, breathy noises stalling in her throat. It’s the chance to be within reach.

It’s the chance to touch…

All while she’s unaware, pulled under the heavy curtain of sleep.

The door falls shut silently behind me, but I brace my palm against it just in case.

Her soft lips are parted, her chest rising and falling slowly. Tonight her legs are exposed, the quilt rumpled beneath her figure, and she’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts that do nothing to hide what’s underneath. Her nipples are peaked beneath the fabric, a scattering of goosebumps across her skin.

Like she can sense me.

Like even her subconscious knows.

Her legs are parted. How easily I could push her knees apart. Settle myself between them.

Just a taste.

I’ve become intimately familiar with her scent—it overpowers me in this room, utterly maddening—thanks to that scrap of fabric you could hardly call underwear, back in my rooms, thoroughly used.

Mine, now. Finders keepers.

Barely a thought, and I’m hard. At the foot of her bed, gazing at her dozing form, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, the sweet innocence of it, but I know she’s not innocent. And it takes everything in me not to climb up onto the mattress and sink into her.