Page 28 of Petrify

My eyes narrow. “Is this an interrogation?”

I canfeelhis sneer. “It is now.”

“Because I don’t remember anyone saying that I had to answer toyou.”

He hums, a low, amused sound that resonates in his chest. “Are you sure about that?”

This ghost, this man, is as real as I am. I have no doubt if I were to reach for him, my hand would meet a solid chest.

And if he’s real, then there is a man in my room. Mylockedroom.

He hasn’t made a move to rush me. He stays put a few feet away. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have already. At least, this is what I tell myself.

“I’ve made music my everything,” I say, answering his question. “Without it, I…”

I don’t want to admit what I’d do, where I’d be, if I hadn’t decided to throw myself into learning everything I could about my instrument. It was a distinct decision, too. I remember it well. I wasn’t a prodigy, or even remotely talented, but one day I’d had enough of the hand I was dealt and if nothing else, the music became a distraction. Something to do to stay out of my mother’s way. Something to fill the time.

“Then we’re the same.”

Though he hasn’t moved an inch closer, I swear I feel breath on my neck, a heat closing in around me. His attention is piercing, his presence in the room drawing all the shadows closer.

“The same?”

The white mask slowly nods once. “I hear everything. Every moment you’ve sat at that piano and played. I’ve heard you play my music.”

“And you’ve beenwatchingme.”

“Yes.”

I’m aflame with the memory of him standing by the tub. Opening my eyes, limbs buzzing with pleasure, just to see his dark form. The thrill of being so vulnerable. A heady mix of pleasure and peril that Iknowcan be so quickly addictive.

I should be angrier.

I only stare back at his solid white mask, trembling in my bed, thinking maybe I’m too familiar with the way my heart pounds.

“What doyouwant, Mallary Doyle?” He steps forward, saying my name again like a taunt, like he knows just how he’ll get under my skin. “What has been promised to you? Which of your dreams are for sale?”

The scowl sours my face before I can stop it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Favorite in your class. The shoe-in for the residency. A spot in the city orchestra with your name on it. Principal pianist. But you didn’t get the residency. The orchestra didn’t take you in as anything but an understudy. Why is that? When you play so beautifully?”

Shame heats my face.

He’s too close to the truth, probing at my failures.

“Maybe I decided to take some time off.”

His head tilts. “No.”

I open my mouth to bite back again, but he cuts me off.

“All of that can be yours again. That, and more.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I bite out.

There’s a tense pause.

Then, “How badly do you want it?” Something deep and sensuous and wholly alluring seeps from his voice and straight into my blood.