Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 2 – Scene 12

Scarlett

My head… isn’t killing me.

The thought has me frowning before I even open my eyes. Something tells me I should have a huge migraine right now, but other than the extreme exhaustion weighing down every muscle, I feel… fine.

Why do I feel fine?

Visions of last night flicker across my mind like a slideshow at three times speed and it’s hard to grasp one moment over any other. All I can remember is a sweet lullaby and the soothing way the singer’s strong chest vibrated against my cheek as he sang to me. His whiskey, sugar, and leather scent envelopes me still in an intoxicating embrace. And even now, I imagine piano music playing in the background.

Wait… there is piano music playing.

The notes are less muffled than they usually sound through the vent in my room. My eyes flutter open to take a look. They burn with fatigue, but I do my best to blink slowly until I’m finally peering out into the world.

The very dark world.

Am I in a box?

My breath quickens until I see a gap in the wall, revealing a gentle glow beyond that.

Wait, no. That’s not a wall. It’s curtains.

Red fabric surrounds me and I sit up as I realize I’m snuggled in a king-size bed of silk sheets and thick quilting. The bed underneath me is heavenly cozy, no doubt contributing to the incredibly refreshed feeling underlying the weariness in my bones.

Where am I?

The gentle notes from my dreams flow through the curtains, caressing my senses. I pull the quilt aside and climb out of bed, sinking my bare feet into a thick, plush crimson carpet.

An IV stand is placed by the bed, but whatever bag that might’ve hung from it has been removed. I search my arms to find a small Band-Aid covering a cotton ball over the crook of my elbow. I was hooked up to the IV… but why?

A vague, hazy image filters into my mind of an older woman with kind, dark-brown eyes.

Dr. Portia. That was her name.

Answers piece together and break apart back into questions, creating and dismantling a confusing jigsaw puzzle of memories. Instead of staying put and trying to build a picture of what happened last night, I push open the curtains fully to assess my new surroundings.

The alluring scent of powdered sugar almost seduces a moan from me. I glance around to find the source and excitement zings through me at the sight of the white paper Café du Monde bag sitting on the bedside table. Beside it, an alarm clock reads six o’clock… p.m.

Holy shit, I slept all day.

My eyes widen at the revelation and I resist the urge to dig into the beignets so that sugar can solve all my problems. Instead, I observe the rest of the room.

The stone walls, recessed lighting, dim lamps, and rich black, crimson, and gold hues make the bedroom look like a modern version of the king’s room in every medieval movie I’ve ever seen. The thick carpet is actually one large rug that takes up the entirety of the walking space in the room. And stunning photographs of the world’s most impressive sites line the walls. I spin around to see them all until it dawns on me that there are no windows.

Am I underground?

Unsure, I continue my inspection by wandering toward the pictures in awe, slowly taking in gorgeous snapshots of places I’ve always dreamed of visiting, like the Colosseum, Machu Picchu, and the Sphinx. Scattered among the global wonders are photos of France and even New Orleans.

My fingers trace the gold filigree of one photograph in particular. The pianist in the band looks so familiar and my heart twinges when I realize—

“That’s your father.”

I jump back as if the photograph itself had spoken in the deep bass tone. Twirling on my heel to face the speaker, I feel my eyes widen on the man filling the doorway.

And I do mean filling.

The ceilings must be nine feet tall, which if I’m still in New Orleans like I think I am, is really freaking impressive considering the city is barely above sea level in most places. The door seems to be an ordinary height, and yet the man staring back at me nearly touches the top of the frame.

His broad shoulders are covered by a loose-fitting white T-shirt but the corded muscles in his arms stretch the width of the long sleeves. Dark lines of a tattoo on his muscular chest and right arm bleed through the thin material. Gray sweatpants cover his strong lower body, but bare toes peek out from underneath his pant legs.

That little detail calms me for some reason. It’s a weirdly comforting vulnerability, but I’m not sure why.

My gaze travels up to meet midnight eyes. One sparkles like the stars in a moonless sky. The other is dull behind the bone-white skull mask that I’ve somehow already grown accustomed to. Strands of his thick black hair fall over his forehead, almost veiling his right eye, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

The uncovered left side of his face is striking. His skin is a pale ivory and unmarked, smooth but for the light scruff of a beard trying to form. That jawline is harsh, and it tics under my perusal. When I get to his lips they too form a hard line, but a slight twitch tells me he’s pleased with something.

Sol Bordeaux, the supposed Phantom of the French Quarter, and maybe my demon of music, is pleased. My pulse quickens at the thought that he could be pleased with me.

Somewhere along the way, during my examination, I lost my breath. My stomach tightens and I begin to feel hot all over.

He takes a step forward, but uncertainty over the desire pumping in my veins forces me to mirror his move backward. That twitch of a smile sinks to a frown before his delicious voice carries to me again. This time, concern laces each word.

“Are you alright?”

“What?” I croak painfully. My hands shield my neck protectively, as if whatever is hurting me stems from the outside. I try to swallow, but the saliva I can manage to muster feels like lava going down my throat.

“Sit on the bed,” he commands with a scowl.

My body obeys before I can stop it and I watch him from my place on the bed as he disappears through an open door on the right side of the room. He doesn’t turn the light on, but water flows on and off from a faucet and he emerges again with a full glass.

“Here, drink this. Dr. Portia said you’d be thirsty today.”

I take the cup with eager hands and bring it to my lips, not caring that I’m slurping the contents down. When I finish, I take a breath like I’ve been underwater for minutes and wince when my throat aches again.

“Throat hurting?”

I nod and he pivots to the bedside table, retrieves two pills from a small bottle, and holds them out to me in his large palm.

“Take these.”

My eyes narrow and dart from the pills to his waiting face. I shake my head slowly.

“You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know you.”

He takes one of my hands and deposits the pills into my palm. I inspect them, sniffing them like an idiot before I swallow down what I’m pretty sure is just run-of-the-mill aspirin with another gulp of water.

He fixes his heated gaze on me. “You know me, ma belle muse. You just don’t want to admit it.”

My heart stutters and my eyes widen again. “W-what did you call me?”

He smirks. “My pretty muse. I would’ve figured you’d know what it means by now.”

“I do…” My pulse races in my veins as my slow brain tries to add it all up. “You are my demon of music.”

That smirk widens to a half-cocked smile. The satisfaction there springs a fluttering sensation in my lower belly.

“Very good, ma chérie. I’ve always enjoyed your nickname for me. I find it quite fitting.” He bows low with a flourish. “But from now on, you can just call me Sol.”

“Sol…” I taste his name on my tongue, loving the feeling until I remember what Rand told me. “But you’re also the Phantom of the French Quarter. You… you hurt people. Like Monty… and Jacques Baron.”

He frowns and straightens. “Monty was never in any real danger because the chandelier’s chain is too strong and short to break or reach the ground. As for Jacques… he was a disgusting rapist who disrespected women. Anyone who receives my punishment fucking deserves it. Jacques Baron was no different. Surely you understand vigilante justice better than most.”

My heart thunders at his last sentence. I have no idea how Sol so accurately pegged my own moral code, but he’s right. There was also no judgment against me in his statement, just fact, and the rest of his answer satisfies my curiosity. Hearing that Jacques got the end he deserved validates the satisfaction I felt when I first heard he was dead. Sometimes, literally fighting for justice is the only kind we get in this world. But I don’t dare agree with him out loud.

“But… you’re not—you’re not supposed to be real, right? I thought…” My shoulders drop with a confused huff as realization trickles in like water droplets through a hole in a dam.

All the rumors… all my friends who I thought were just superstitious when they rubbed their skull jewelry like a totem and spoke of the phantom like a bogeyman… my own suspicions and what I thought were hallucinations…

They’re all true.

“I’m very real. I’m sorry I ever did anything to make you think I wasn’t. That was never my intention. I figured you were content with keeping me your secret.”

“I was,” I admit as my thoughts run wild. “And if you’re real… that means I wasn’t hallucinating. I was beginning to wonder if I was slowly going insane again and I was just along for the ride. But you’re real.” That realization should scare me, but I can’t muster anything but relief. A question sparks hope in my chest and my eyes widen. “What about my first manic episode? The past several months I’ve been hearing piano music, but during my first manic episode, it was nonstop jazz playing in my head like a constant radio on low volume. Was that you too?”

He winces and the hope that I was never actually crazy deflates like a balloon. I half expect to hear that squeaky leaking sound.

“Of course, it wasn’t.” I curse on a sigh. “That was only as real as hallucinations get.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s trying to figure out if he should comfort me, but I bristle, still unsure about who I’m talking to or why I’m here. As if he can already read me like a book, he stuffs his hands into his pockets instead and leans a broad shoulder between two gold frames on the wall. The move makes his biceps look impossibly chiseled and my core heats. I squirm to cross my legs on the bed, but I can’t find it in me to stop staring as he answers me with sad sincerity.

“That was not me, I’m sorry to say.”

“But you know about it? My bipolar disorder?” I ask. He nods carefully, like he’s not sure where I’m going with the line of questioning. “How do you know about it?”

He pauses for a moment, examining me with a tilt of his head and a warm, intense gaze. I squeeze my legs tighter.

“I didn’t become the Phantom of the French Quarter without knowing everything that goes on in my city, ma chérie.”

“Okay, but why do you know so much about me?”

“Because you are everything,” he answers simply.

I take another sip of water to bide time while I think of my response. After the cool liquid massages my sore throat, I finally reply. “That’s, um, very flattering, Phantom—”

“Call me Sol, please.”

“Okay.” I swallow again. “Sol… like I was saying, that’s very sweet and… admittedly creepy, but it doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

His head shakes as if he’s truly baffled, too. “It’s something I can’t explain, no matter how many times I’ve tried to make sense of it myself. Maybe one day we’ll both be able to understand what you mean to me.”

My mouth falls open and I want to question him more, but his shoulder pushes from the wall and he gestures to a dresser across the room.

“There are clothes you might find more comfortable than your costume. Meet me in the den when you’re finished with your morning routine.”

At his word choice, my gaze snaps to Sol again, only to see his sculpted back muscles and dark-ink design pressing against his thin shirt.

“Wait! How did you get my clothes?”

He spins on his heel and half smiles underneath his skull mask again before walking backward out of the room. “The Phantom has his ways.”

With that, he leaves and closes the door behind him. My eyes drop to my outfit as I finally realize that I’m still in my blush-and-gold Marguerite costume from rehearsal. The rehearsal where he was watching me.

How long has he been watching? And why the hell does that bring an odd thrill of pleasure up my spine when I should be scratching the stone walls to escape?

Piano music plays lightly through the door, like an echo from a memory, prompting me to hop up and change my clothes. While the events of last night are a haphazard jumble in my mind, I’m thankful that whatever happened didn’t involve him changing my clothes himself, or sending me to the psych ward, both of which might’ve been necessary considering the hazy fog over my brain right now.

I put on a matching black bra and thong. My cheeks warm at the thought of Sol touching my unmentionables, but I’m more grateful for the fact that I’m not being force-fed antipsychotics right now than I am embarrassed about my underwear. I slide into a simple pink scoop neck T-shirt, dark jeans, and black fuzzy socks—not grippy, thank God.

Once I change, I head to the bathroom Sol used earlier to fetch a glass of water and relieve my full bladder. Upon quick inspection, all my morning and nighttime routine products are perfectly lined up on one side of the double vanity’s black marble countertop.

All of them.

I use the extensive regimen as a way to keep my own sanity in check. Great sleep, a routine called social rhythm therapy, and medication have been my stay-sane cocktail ever since I was diagnosed.

How did he know?

I’m not sure I want to find out the answer to that, to be honest. Not yet. I’m still wrapping my mind slowly around the fact that my moment of panicked insanity last night, when I took those pills, didn’t kill me. My mouth tastes like something died inside it and my throat burns like hell thanks to being forced to purge the drugs.

Not wanting to think about the severity of my actions just yet, I shake my head free of that truth. Instead, I open up a still-packaged toothbrush to begin my morning routine, pretending like I’m not holed up in a rich guy’s basement that’s God knows where. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be reacting to the fact that a near stranger stole me from my room, saved me from being committed to a psych ward, and probably kept me alive. I doubt relief and gratitude should be overwhelming my fear.

Is the reason why I’m not scared to death right now because my mind has been through hell and back in the past forty-eight hours? Or is it because Sol is a smoking-hot, droolworthy, demon-at-a-masquerade vibes kind of attractive?

No, he’s been my own muse for months. I can’t be afraid of him. He cares about me.

Which is even creepier!

Okay… so maybe the Sol-is-hot factor has something to do with it.

I agree with my inner monologue until I get lost in my routine and tune it out. The music outside the bathroom has changed pace to something that sounds like Clair de lune by Claude Debussy but with a lively jazz beat. Intrigued, I quickly complete my last steps and take my morning medication so I can go listen.

Once I’m done, I grab the bag of beignets from the bedside table and do what I’ve always done. Follow the music.

It leads me through the bedroom door and into a hallway, where each note dances and bounces off the stone walls. The lack of windows everywhere I go seriously has me questioning where we are. Last night, I remember being carried down, not driven or flown out of the city. But despite the fact that New Orleans is notoriously below sea level, here I am in what appears to be an underground castle home with electricity and running water. I pass by a modern kitchen, a fully equipped personal gym, and even more stunning photography from all over the world.

If Sol took these himself, his talent doesn’t stop at music. Each photo sucks me in and makes me feel like I’m actually there.

I slow alongside another photograph beside an open doorway. This one is a stunning black-and-white picture of graves inside St. Louis No.1, the cemetery tourists flock to in droves, like bees to honey. But this one is different than any I’ve ever seen, depicting a grand raised plot with the Bordeaux family name inscribed in the stone—

“Come in, petite muse.” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Sol’s voice echoes from the room I’m standing outside. How he knew I was here, I have no clue. I thought I’d been pretty quiet on the plush rugs, but I guess the phantom really does see and hear everything.

I round the corner into a living room with the same aesthetic as the rest of the home. There’s photography, soft rugs, stone walls, but this time there’s also an inviting black leather couch and an ottoman with two matching chairs. The seating curves in a semicircle and faces the back corner of the room where a sleek, black grand piano sits in all its glory. A big-screen TV hangs above a lit gas-log fireplace on the right side of the room, but unlike every other home I’ve been in, the piano—and not the TV—is the room’s focus.

The piano is angled away from the door, making it so that Sol’s back is turned slightly to me. His long, strong fingers skillfully roll over the keys, and I can’t help but stare as his inked upper back muscles flex underneath his thin white shirt. Mesmerized, I set the beignets on a small table next to the door, unable to step farther into the room for fear of breaking the spell.

But he knows I’m here, a fact he confirms by seamlessly segueing the current song to the one he sang to me last night. My chest aches to know the words to the French version, but they’re just beyond the tip of my tongue.

I listen for a few more minutes, letting my eyes close as I hum along to the music. When I open my eyes on what I know is the last note, I look up to see Sol’s midnight eye blazing on me. He slowly drops his hands from the black and ivory keys.

We hold each other’s gaze until my rapidly increasing heartbeat thrums in my chest. I swallow down the sudden need to throw myself at him. The overwhelming sensation is so foreign, I have trouble fighting against it.

I’ve never had much luck with guys. Obviously, taking someone home from Bourbon Street to my dad’s rental house was absolutely out of the question. But even after I moved into my dorm, no one has ever kept my interest. If I did express wanting to get to know someone more, the guy would inevitably run for the hills without so much as asking for my number. Not to mention the fact that Jaime is the worst wingman ever. Every time I thought I had a real shot at someone, he’d assume the big brother role and scare them off.

So I have no experience to shed light on what to do right now.

No man—not a single one—has ever looked at me the way Sol is right now. It fuels a need in me I’ve never felt, not even on my wildest manic nights. It’s exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

“I told you that you knew it.” Sol’s voice breaks me from my thoughts.

“Knew what?”

“The song.” Sol nods to the piano. “You were singing the words under your breath. I told you that you knew it. You seem to know every song I play. Even the ones I’ve written myself.”

“Oh.” I shake my head, faintly remembering asking for the words during my panic attack. “I don’t know the French lyrics. But I’ve always had a knack for predicting music. My father used to joke that ‘Little Lettie’s never let a song pass her by without knowing it first.’”

Sol’s smile lifts up faintly. “My mother was the same way.”

“Your mother?” I ask, trying to remember what I’ve heard through the New Orleans rumor mill. For all Jaime’s love of gossip in the Bordeaux Conservatory, he hates talking about the Bordeauxs themselves.

“She’s gone.”

My heart clenches at the gravity in those two words, and I grip the doorframe to stop myself from going to him.

“I’m sorry. My dad is gone, too. My mom ran off when I was a kid.”

God, shut up. He does not care.

“I’m sorry, too,” he offers. His sincerity hits straight to the bone in that way only people who’ve experienced the same grief can understand. “Your father was a great musician. New Orleans loved him.”

“You knew my dad?” My voice cracks on the last word.

He shakes his head sadly. “No. But I listened to him plenty of times. I used to sneak off with my brother to Frenchmen Street to hear him play. Ben’s never been much of a music fan. He takes after my father.” The left corner of his lips lift up like he’s told an inside joke and I can’t help but smile back.

But then my smile falters. “Why am I here, Sol?”

Without answering, he stands up from the piano and shoves his hands into his sweatpants pockets before walking slowly toward me. My pulse races faster and faster with each step until he stops with only a few feet between us. The intensity in his gaze never wavers, and I suddenly have to fight the urge to flee. But I stand my ground and raise my chin to meet his sparkling midnight eye.

“Last night, you had some sort of breakdown,” he answers, searching my face. “You took too many pills and I had to bring you here, to my home beneath the opera house. It was the only way I knew to get you help without taking you to the hospital. I wasn’t sure how many pills you took, so I made you throw them up and I had our family doctor assess you.”

The facts don’t hurt my pride as much as I expected them to, thanks to his gentle tone. I knew most of the information, but hearing it all laid out is a lot to unpack.

“I saw you watching me from box five. Then you vanished. It freaked me out and I had a panic attack. But how were you in my room so quickly? How did you know I…” I don’t finish the sentence, too embarrassed to say the actual word for what I did when I took too much medication.

His eyes roam over me, like he’s looking for any sign that I’ll run away before he answers.

“Because I watch you.”

I nearly prove him right as my fight-or-flight response kicks into high gear, only to settle on freeze.

“You… watch me.”

“Yes.”

I wait for an explanation but when he doesn’t elaborate, I scoff. “What do you mean, you watch me?”

“When you moved into your dorm, I realized quickly that you could hear me practice through here.” He points to the vent above the piano. “The first time you wrote lyrics to one of my songs and sang along…” He drifts off and the reverence in his voice makes my heart flutter. “Your voice is ethereal, Scarlett. I needed more of you.”

“That’s when your letters started.” I glance around the room, not sure what I’m looking for until I find a small desk with candles of various colors and sizes surrounding stationary and a laptop. It’s a juxtaposition of past and present, just like him. “You really are real. My demon of music.”

“I heard that in one of your lyrics. It fits. The world already knows me as the Phantom of the French Quarter. But being your démon de la musique is what I didn’t know I craved. Hearing your voice singing my music is… perfection.”

Pride swells in my chest, but I try my best to focus on what his words actually mean in this situation.

“So you… what? Break into my room?” I scowl at the thought. “Do you watch me undress?”

“No, of course not.” He frowns back at me. “I only stay long enough to hear you sing the lyrics you come up with and write in your journal. Your nose does this cute little scrunched thing when you concentrate.” His accompanying chuckle seems to surprise him and he cuts it off abruptly. Appreciation twists my heart in my chest, threatening to derail my resolve to be mad at him. “Except for what happened the other night, whenever you’re in a compromising position, I look away for your privacy.”

“Well, how gentlemanly of you to stop looking long enough for me to—wait…” My eyes widen as realization creeps in. “The other night? Holy shit, it was you! Not a dream. You were actually there when I… Oh my god, you’re sick.”

His lips flatten and he narrows his eyes. “Scarlett—”

“No.” I wave my hand and spin around to the door. “How the hell do I get out of here—”

“You’re not leaving—”

“Yes, I am,” I call over my shoulder as I march toward my freedom.

Two impossibly large hands latch on to my shoulders and pull me against his chest. Sol’s whiskey-and-sugar scent immediately floods my senses, but I fight against the intoxicating aroma.

“No! Let go of me!”

“I can’t do that, Scarlett. You need to listen to me.”

“No, damnit!”

I twist and dig my heels into the carpet, but with the combination of fuzzy socks and my unyielding captor, my efforts are futile. Once he wraps his long, muscular arms around me, my attempt to escape is completely hopeless, and he holds my writhing, cursing form until I’ve tired myself out and my chest is heaving for breath.

“Calm down and listen to me, little muse,” he murmurs above my ear. “You know me. You know I would never hurt you.”

I’m plastered to him with nowhere to go. His heart pounds at my back and like my own stuttering pulse, I can’t tell if his is due to fear or desire. My lungs adopt the same cadence of his breaths and my fight leaves me after several deep inhales and exhales. All the while, he never lets up on his strong embrace, which is somehow soothing in and of itself.

I know I should be pissed. Any other woman would be in this situation. But unlike any other woman, even though I’m angry, hurt, embarrassed, and confused, I can’t deny the glaring truth. I’ve known and trusted my demon of music for months, and if he hadn’t been in my room last night… I might’ve died. Or if anyone else had found me I’d be locked up in a psych ward again right now.

“There you go. That’s it, ma petite muse.” His whispered encouragement flutters my hair, and I lean into his embrace completely. “Relax against me.”

My skin grows sensitive where his arms envelop me, but I push past the warmth flowing in my veins to remember why I’m frustrated.

“You’ve… you’ve been stalking me and… you pleasured me—” I cough out when a shiver of desire rolls down my back.

“And you begged me to,” he purrs.

My entire body pushes against him again and for some reason, he lets me go.

“I was drugged, Sol. I couldn’t have given consent. I thought you were a dream—”

His bark of laughter makes me stop.

“What’s so funny?”

“You were not fully drugged yet, ma chérie. That medication takes a while to kick in all the way. I wasn’t planning on you seeing me through your mirror, but you did. What am I supposed to do when you beg me to make you come? Should I have left you there, keening and moaning my name with no release? I helped you come using your own fingers because even though it was agony not being able to give you that release myself, I could never deny you anything you need. You can believe what you want to believe, but I only gave you what you demanded.”

I shake my head, determined to hold fast to my version of the truth, but… he’s right. On some level, I wondered if the medication hadn’t hit yet, but does that mean I really wanted him that night? What does it mean if I still want him, even right now? Am I not supposed to hate him for doing something like this?

He takes a step forward and I retreat again, only for him to keep stalking toward me.

“When I came to your room, I wasn’t expecting to see you like that. I almost left once I realized it, but your voice called to me, like it always does, ma jolie petite muse. But this time, you called my name.”

I swallow as we continue our dance and my lower belly tightens.

“Your fingers weren’t doing the job,” he continues. “You needed me.”

My back hits the stone wall, but the human one in front of me doesn’t stop his pursuit. He raises his forearms to rest them against the wall on both sides of my head, caging me in. My breaths come in heavy pants as I focus on his sparkling midnight eye. He dips his head low and his nose caresses where my scoop neck T-shirt reveals my bare collarbone. Tingles and goose bumps erupt over my skin. Without second-guessing myself further, I clutch the loose hem of his shirt in my hands and twist the fabric taut as I tug him closer.

His nose skims my neck, continuing up my jawline to my ear before his hands clench into fists against the stone. The muscles in his thigh are rock hard as his knee pushes between the apex of my legs. My body instinctually grinds against his thigh, searching for release, and I know my panties are soaked.

“I could smell your arousal then.” His sharp inhale draws cool air over my fevered skin and his low chuckle heats it right back up. “Just like I can now. Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to know exactly what you want… exactly what you need, and deny us both the pleasure of giving it to you?” His lips and teeth nibble my earlobe as his right hand threads through the curls in my hair. He arches my neck to the side, leaving my throat vulnerable to his light-as-air kisses. “Tell me, my pretty little muse. Tell me how I’m supposed to deny you when you beg me to make you come?”

His left hand strokes down my side and slides behind my lower back to help me find my pleasure against his thigh. I’m practically riding him and his hard length pushes against my stomach, reminding me that delicious release—like what he gave me the other night—is just within my reach.

“I’m not good, little muse. My obsession with you is the only pure thing about me. Never forget that I’m your demon of music, Scarlett. You can’t expect me to behave like a gentleman when you beg like my whore.”

He lifts me and wraps my legs around him as he pushes me flush against the wall. The new position has me straddling his thick length, lining the head of his cock up to massage my clit. I moan at the sensation and cling to his shirt, hanging on as he controls my every move. I’m already so close, all I need is just a few more of his subtle thrusts against my center.

“Answer me, Scarlett.” His warm lips brush mine as he speaks.

I want to please him, but I’ve completely forgotten the question because I’m… al…most…there—

He suddenly pushes away from the wall, dropping me to my feet and taking all my breath, composure, self-righteous arguments, and orgasm with him.

“Sol! What the hell?”

“I won’t have you accusing me of giving you another orgasm without your consent.” His mischievous smile tells me he knows exactly how close I was and my mouth falls open.

“Was all that just to prove a point?” I straighten my shirt and cross my legs in a desperate attempt to ignore how wet I am between my thighs.

But the damp indigo-dyed patches on his gray sweatpants where my jeans rubbed against his thigh and cock give me away. He follows my embarrassed stare to the evidence he bears of my arousal and that infuriatingly smug look on his face beams back up at me.

“Prove a point?” he asks as he lifts a shoulder and crosses his arms. “And what point would that be?”

The cotton fabric straining around his chest and biceps looks like it could burst at the seams with one heavy breath. He does nothing to hide the raging erection in his sweatpants and all his entire cocky demeanor does is get me more flustered as I try not to gape at his impressive size, because good god is he huge.

“Scarlett?” he prompts me, bringing my eyes back to his. “What point do you think I’m trying to make?”

“That I—” I cut myself off when the left side of his smirk lifts higher, taunting me. “I have no idea.” I finish and cross my own arms haughtily.

“Deny it all you want, ma chère. But I was more than a phantom to you that night. I was exactly what you needed.”

I growl in frustration and push against the wall to head toward the door, snatching the Café du Monde bag up as I stomp out.

“Where do you think you are going now?”

“Back to my dorm,” I yell back as I enter the hallway.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” he replies in an infuriating, singsong voice. “Even if I did, you can’t escape me in my own city, ma belle muse, and I don’t think you really want to.”

His laugh may be teasing me as it echoes from the den to my place in the hallway, but his words strike a chord in me.

This is the Phantom of the French Quarter. The man that everyone fears so much, they talk about him in hushed whispers. And I…

I’m being a brat.

The fact that I even feel comfortable talking to him this way shows how unafraid of him I actually am. I’m claiming I’m mad and disgusted by him watching me and making me come the other night, and I know I should be terrified of the man who has stalked me through my bedroom mirror for months. After all, I’m the quiet, scared little mouse who never sticks up for herself, too afraid I’ll hurt someone’s feelings, or I’ll get emotional and wind up in a bipolar episode.

But I’m none of those things.

I’m alive with the rush his attention gives me. I feel protected that he’s been watching over me all this time. And I’m obviously more than a little turned on that this mysterious man wants—no, needs—me.

Despite my revelation, I refuse to deviate from my course as I march down the short hallway, passing another bathroom on the way and ending up at what I’m assuming is the front door since it’s the only closed one I’ve come across. I unlock the two dead bolts, ready to leave, but I’m confused that he’s only just now emerged from the den and walking toward me at a leisurely pace.

“I’m leaving,” I warn him again.

“No, you’re not.” His calm voice shows how undeterred he is by my threats, and he moseys toward me with his hands nonchalantly in his sweatpants pockets.

“Watch me, since you’re so good at that.” I glare at him as I twist the knob to swing the door open.

Only it doesn’t budge.

I pull again while Sol leans his shoulder against the wall in what must be his signature not-a-care-in-the-world posture. As if it’s plotting against me too, the door doesn’t even move a fraction as I jiggle the handle. I growl at Sol, but his only response is to glance at the top of the door. I follow his eyes to see yet another latch, but this one is way too high for me to reach.

“Come on,” I groan and kick the door with my fuzzy-socked foot. “Son of a—” Shooting pain radiates up my leg and I drop my bag of beignets to grab my foot. “Holy shit. Ouch, that stings.”

“This game is only fun if you don’t hurt yourself, Scarlett,” he scolds me with a furrowed brow.

“It’s not a game at all!” I yell and limp to rattle the door again. “Let me out of here.”

He sighs like I’m the annoying one when he’s the freaking jailer. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“And why not?” I snap.

The uncovered side of his face grows serious. “Because last night you had a panic attack and overdosed.” That word is like a needle, painfully effective at bursting my self-righteous bubble. “In any other circumstance, you’d be locked up and monitored in a psych ward right now for the next seventy-two hours. Longer, actually, since it’s the weekend. I’m keeping an eye on you instead.”

Gratitude eases tension in my shoulders as his logic sinks in. But I don’t want to give up just yet.

“Gee, Sol, am I supposed to be thankful for your hospitality?” I shake the doorknob in vain. “Why is being here with you so much better than a psych ward? At least there I get watercolor paint and a busted Cable TV.”

That lopsided grin that makes my core throb is back as he tilts his head. “I can think of quite a few things we can do that are way more fun than watercolors and TV. Speaking of which.” He checks his watch. “Ah! You have impeccable timing.” He picks up the Café du Monde bag I dropped on the floor and hands it to me. “Eat your beignets and get dressed. We’ll leave in less than an hour.”

“What?! I did all this arguing for my freedom and now you’re saying we’re just going to leave?” I huff, but he’s already turned his back to me. “Wait a minute. What am I getting dressed for exactly? Where are we going?”

He spins around with an impish grin on his face and points to his skull mask.

“The masquerade, of course.”

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