Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)

Scarlett

As soon as Jaime drops me off at my dorm, I close my door and sag against it. Thank God he volunteered to escort me to my room so I didn’t have to go with Rand. I’m ready to collapse on my bed to finally relax, and I don’t know if it’s because I crushed on him for so long, but his presence puts me on edge.

And the way Sol stared at me? Like he wanted to consume me? Yeah, that sure as hell didn’t help. When he asked about my rose, my heart leaped into my throat. His voice caressed me more lovingly than any hand ever has, and I’d nearly become breathless myself. A flutter in my core drags out a small moan from my chest at the memory, but a thump somewhere in the walls snaps me out of it.

You’d think I’d be able to tune out all the things that go bump in the night in this building. With thousands of students, faculty, and staff milling around, Bordeaux Conservatory is never silent, no matter how good the soundproofing is.

I push away from the door and unpin my rose before laying it gently on my makeup counter. Once I peel myself out of my heavy Juliet dress, I take a deep soothing breath and go about my nightly routine, thoughts of tonight racing through my head. Before I head to the bathroom, my eyes drift to the rose again and catch on the sight of the envelope from my demon of music.

Monty received the same type of letter that my demon sends me, down to the wax skull seal on the back. Although the seal on mine is a seductive red rather than an ominous black, could the envelopes be from the same person?

Mine are also signed off with “Ton démon de la musique,” but Monty’s was signed “Phantom.” Is my secret admirer a demon of music? A phantom? Or both?

Does it matter?

I guess it doesn’t. Objectively, both have major stalker vibes, but I’ve never felt creeped out by the roses, notes, and sheet music from my demon. They’ve felt more like love letters than messages from a villain, like delicate promises instead of the alarming threat Monty received.

And while I should be feeling upset over Jacques’s death and the fact that Monty accused me of threatening him, my chest actually feels lighter knowing that I haven’t been making my own notes. Our letters have gone on for so long, a defeatist part of me was beginning to think they were a figment of my imagination to deal with the guilt of my dad’s murder last year.

Even though my logic says I couldn’t have written them myself, it’s validating to know that someone is actually behind them. My brain has played tricks on me for longer than I’ve been medicated, and even though I haven’t had an episode in months, enough insecurity can make even the strongest mind question reality. But I got definitive proof tonight that I’m still sane. I also have proof that I have a real-life pen pal who is admittedly on the stalker side of secret admirer, but I’m still sane nonetheless.

As soon as I finish scrubbing off my stage makeup in my en suite bathroom, I return to my makeup counter to find my pills… only they’re not there.

I scan my desk, cursing myself over the untidy mess I’ve always maintained and groaning at the prospect of trying to find my medication among the many bottles of foundation, eyeshadow pallets, and hair accessories. I always put them in one specific spot for this reason, but the aftermath of the show caught me out of my routine. When I finish searching the surface, my drawers prove just as fruitless. I render my organized chaos into a tornado of disaster, until I finally give up. Resigned, I turn to my last resort. Old meds.

I’ve been on a journey to control my inner demons for the past year, ever since I was hospitalized for my manic episode. Even after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it still felt like my psychiatrist was guessing at what meds would click for me. Some were worse than others, sending me straight to sleep, making me gain weight, or turning me into a raging bitch. One even changed my vocal cords and I stopped that one immediately, despite the fact that it worked in every other aspect. My psych and I have finally nailed down a combination of meds that works for me.

Normally, I wouldn’t go back to the old meds, especially not the ones that make me feel worse. But after all the events of tonight, I can’t deny that my mood is elevated and I want to cut off a manic episode before it starts.

My thoughts are racing, I’m energized, and the urge to go downstairs and do something reckless—like, I don’t know, confront Sol and his piercing midnight gaze—is nearly overwhelming. It could all be totally harmless, normal emotions.

But it could be the beginning of the end of my sanity.

Especially considering the triumph I felt over Jacques’s suicide? It’s not lost on me that as someone who experienced terrifying suicidal thoughts for nearly a month after my dad died, I should have more compassion for someone who likely ended theirs.

Maybe I’ll find empathy tomorrow, but I can still feel where his hands groped me so brazenly last week, like he’d done it hundreds of times before. What if it wasn’t suicide at all? I can’t help but think he might’ve gotten what he deserved from someone less cowardly than me.

That last self-righteous thought makes me pause, solidifying my decision to take an old medication tonight and calling my doctor about getting new prescriptions tomorrow. The drug knocks me out and gives me bizarre dreams, but next-day grogginess is better than winding up in a psych ward after failing to stave off a manic episode.

Anything but that.

I go to my small bedroom and dig in my bedside table through the many old orange medicine bottles I should’ve thrown out months ago. My fear of getting sick again due to this exact situation made me keep them in the bottom of my drawer, so once I find the right one, I pop a pill into my mouth and sip from the water bottle that stays on my nightstand.

I quickly finish my nightly routine, knowing I don’t have long until the drug will quite literally make me pass out wherever I stand.

One time, months ago, I curled up on the floor of my dorm room, not caring or lucid enough to drag my ass to bed. Thank goodness Jaime has a key. I’d texted him earlier in the night and he must’ve picked me up and carried me to bed. I was tucked in all nice and cozy the next morning, but I was too embarrassed to confront him about it and he’s too much of a gentleman to bring it up.

I toss on a thin white T-shirt and slide underneath my plain pink quilt with my Kindle, eager to read at least one chapter before I pass out. Until I remember that I left off on a steamy scene.

Oh shit.

It’s a particularly sexy scene between a vampire king—my favorite—and the woman he technically kidnapped. A few lines in and I’m already squirming under my sheets, trying to resist the urge to live vicariously through the heroine and pursue my own pleasure. But I’m weak and before long, my free hand is trailing down my torso toward my cotton panties.

Midnight eyes blink in my vision as the need to create my own fantasy takes over.

“Sol…” I breathe.

My nipples harden, begging for attention, and I answer their call with my other hand, letting my Kindle fall to the bed as I pinch each peak over the fabric of my shirt. Arousal floods my panties and my fingertips finally find their way to the elastic and dip underneath to find my clit. The pebbled peak between my thumb and forefinger tingles as my mind conjures up Sol’s broad and powerful form stepping through my mirror.

A part of me—the very small, stupid, prudish side—nags me to stop, telling me that something isn’t right. But the saner part of me knows the medication is only beginning to run its course, probably because I haven’t taken it in a while. And after this lucid dream, I’m going to crash and wake up feeling hungover at eight a.m. on the dot.

My index finger zeroes in on that small bundle of nerves. If I had more time, I’d bring out my vibrator, but I don’t know how long I’ve got until I succumb to sleep. Using my pointer and middle fingers, I quickly caress my clit until I find the rhythm that sends a jolt through my body. My left hand molds and teases both breasts and my body undulates under the covers as I begin to race toward my finish, tantalizingly close, but just out of reach. In my mind, Sol stares at me from the mirror and I reach out to him.

“Come, please. Help me. I need you,” I plead with my mysterious phantom.

His movements seem hesitant as he steps closer. Or is he gliding?

“Are you real?” Knowing somewhere in my psyche that I’m talking to an empty room, I giggle. “Are you my demon of music? Or the Phantom of the French Quarter?”

No, he’s a figment of my imagination, is what he is.

My eyes widen when he opens his mouth.

“I am your Sol.” His voice is deep and rich, just like it was earlier tonight. He spoke with only a hint of a whisper but it resonates loudly in my mind.

I know his name is Sol, but my heart pounds in my chest at the thought that he is my soul. He’s the fabrication I’ve concocted to heal from the trauma of losing my father. Maybe this voice is exactly that. My soul.

“My soul,” I whisper back. “Sing to me, Sol. My demon of music.”

He doesn’t sing, but music comes from somewhere and I know it’s the song my demon wrote for me. His hand gives off a dim light, seemingly summoning the music from somewhere. The glow shines on his bone-white mask. Even though it covers half of his face, it can’t hide the five o’clock shadow dusting his strong jaw. My eyes trail down his body over his unbuttoned collar and the rolled-up sleeves of his black dress shirt. His dark pants do little to hide the hardening bulge behind his zipper, and I love the fact that he’s not trying to hide it from me either.

Then again, why should he? This is my medically induced fever dream. Why would he hide his need for me?

Even as I think it, my mind fights itself, telling me something is off here, but I shake my head and plead again, wanting to give in to the sensations.

“Please touch me, Sol.”

His midnight eyes scorch my skin as he stares at me hungrily in a way that has me writhing underneath my fingertips for that crescendo that remains infuriatingly out of reach.

His warm hand brushes against my cheek and I lean into the touch like a cat in heat. As I do, he sits down, knuckles still touching my skin, until he stops suddenly.

“Did you take this shit again?” he grumbles and grabs my medicine bottle from my bedside table. “After the way it made you pass out last time?”

“H-how… do you know about that?” I ask, confused. But of course he’d know. I know and that’s the extent my dream state can provide.

“Why?” his voice demands gruffly. If it weren’t for the gentle way he’s stroking my cheek, I’d be afraid of his tone.

“I lost my medication.”

“Lost it?”

“Yes.” I wince sheepishly, embarrassed that I can’t remember where I put my pill container. “But I don’t want to go back there again.”

“Where?”

“The ward. I can’t be crazy again.”

Understanding wars with the protective concern wrinkling his brow. He nods once and pockets the meds.

“No more of this, Scarlett. I’ll find your other medicine before you resort to taking old ones. I’ll take care of you.”

“Th-Thank you,” I moan just as my single-minded fingers find a very sensitive spot. “Please, Sol…”

He twists to see me better, but his fingers don’t leave my cheek. I can see his other hand grabbing his cock through his pants, but not stroking, almost as if he’s having to stave off his own release.

“I will not touch you the way you want, but show me how you give yourself pleasure and tell me how you like it as you do.”

“I… I’ve never.” His eyes flare. “I mean, I know how to do it myself, but I’ve never… in front of someone… or with someone.”

His knuckles flow along my jawline and down my neck until he reaches my collarbone, uncovered by my baggy T-shirt. “You’ve never been with anyone before? Not even before this year?”

The phrasing of the question is odd, but when I shake my head “no,” his left midnight eye sparkles down on me, causing a delicious shiver to erupt through my whole body. I lie on my back and wantonly spread my legs for his view, loving the way he raises his brow and growls when he asks his next question.

“When you fuck yourself with your fingers, ma belle muse, who do you think of?”

“You,” I whisper over the soft song playing on repeat. “My demon of music. Your music.”

“Ah… think of me, ma chère. Touch yourself. Stroke those slender fingers against your pretty clit and think of the music we’ll make together one day.”

I moan at his words as I obey him and my fingers work furiously.

“Good. Now stop—” I whine in protest, but listen to his command. “Massage your nipples with your wet hand until they’re glistening pink for me. I can see your pussy dripping from here. Dip your finger deep inside and feel how much you need me.”

I raise my shirt and drench my nipples with my desire while my other hand curves two fingers into my entrance. His hungry gaze widens and his fingers keep stroking the sensitive skin of my collarbone, never going past the stretched collar of my T-shirt. The hand on his clothed cock stretches angrily before fisting himself through his pants again.

“Please, Sol. Touch me. I need to feel you.”

“No,” he finally says. “I want to hear that pretty voice tell me what you like until you come.”

I’m so turned on and I’m beginning to worry that the medication is going to stifle my orgasm like it has in the past. It keeps feeling like it’s drifting away, and if I lose it while this need still drives me, I’ll fucking scream.

“It’s going away. Please, Sol.”

“I can’t touch you yet, but I love to hear you beg, pretty muse.”

I moan and close my eyes, getting lost in the haze. Who is this woman that’s pleading for her phantom to pleasure her? At least he doesn’t seem to mind, even though he’s making no moves to listen to me.

It’s because he’s not real. He’s a hallucination.

Oh god… am I going crazy again?

My throat feels tight and it takes me a second to realize Sol is cupping my neck. I should be freaking out, but I’m calmed by his touch, especially when concern softens his eyes.

“You’re not crazy, Scarlett.”

Did I say that out loud?

“You’re just medicated with the wrong drug, which you will never take again. Do you understand? It’s not good for you.”

“O-okay.”

His fingers gentle before leaving my neck to play with a curl of hair.

“Close your eyes. Give in to the darkness. Let my voice guide you until you come.”

I shut my eyes again and a wave of exhaustion washes over me, like the drug is finally kicking in. My need to come is still overwhelming yet has never felt more out of reach.

“I… can’t,” I groan and pull my hand away as I roll to my side, feeling stupid at the tears pricking my eyes. One escapes and falls down my face, but he catches it swiftly with his index finger. “I need to come but I can’t, Sol. Please, you have to help me come.”

Hunger and indecision mar the unmasked half of my phantom’s face. He finally swallows hard and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You need me to help?” When I nod, he growls. “Fuck, okay. I could never deny you, ma petite muse.”

The bed dips as he squeezes in behind me on the twin mattress. His essence—whiskey, sugar, and leather, like a Sazerac in a lounge—washes over me as his arm slides underneath my neck and rolls me closer to cradle me, my back to his chest.

My mind is sluggish as the sleeping drug works its way through my system. His warm breath flutters the tiny hairs on the back of my neck and I tremble. Lips brush against the sensitive skin, drawing a moan from deep within my soul, mixed with the frustration of my tired limbs and the ache between my thighs.

“Close your eyes, Scarlett.”

I blink quickly, not even realizing they were still open. My eyelids finally drift closed like he commands. His fingertips skate lightly down my arm until his large grip trembles over mine, covering me in such a way that no part of his hand actually touches the rest of my body. He begins to control my body masterfully, like a conductor in his own symphony, and leads my hands where I need them.

Under his direction and fingertips, I trace my arousal-soaked nipple with one hand. With the other, my new guide travels us back down to my pussy and we delve underneath the hem of my panties.

When I feel my own desire, my phantom curses behind me, and I squeeze my breast almost to the point of pain. My hips grind against the hard length branding my ass and I wish I could feel him from the inside. Our fingers find my clit at the apex of my legs and Sol uses the pressure of his own finger to flutter over the delicate bud.

“Sol, yes,” I moan as he pulsates my finger like a heartbeat. “More.”

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Good… so good…” My sentence drifts off but he shakes me.

“Give me more than that or I’ll stop.” The edge in his voice only heightens the thrill.

I whimper as I search for my words and an orgasm in the same moment. “Y-your hands on mine… they’re warm… strong. Safe.”

His movements pause. “Safe?”

I nod and his ministrations pick back up, this time with less furious urgency and more… reverence. So I tell him that, too.

“You’re my pretty little muse, Scarlett. I worship your voice. Your body, mind, and soul are no different.”

“Even the darkness in my mind?” I ask, not sure why it matters if my phantom accepts my madness.

“Especially your darkness.”

His whispered confession relaxes me further and triggers the beginning of my orgasm. My muscles tighten as our fingers play my clit like a duet piece. Somehow, he knows exactly how to strum me into release.

“I feel like my body knows your touch and the song you want to play with it. My core already knows the right key.”

“Do you like the music I give you? The songs I’ve written just for you? They won’t compare to the ones you sing when you come.”

My breath hitches when one of his fingers guides mine inside my channel and he begins to pump my hand.

“Yes… I love your music. Some days it gives me reason… purpose. My heart thrums every time I see your white rose and letter.”

A grumble of approval vibrates against my neck, as if this phantom, my demon of music, loves praise. It emboldens me to keep going, but he presses the heel of my hand into my clit, snapping my attention to the aching desire building in my core. The walls of my pussy contract against my finger as my own palm kneads my bundle of nerves frantically.

I give up trying to move on my own and he takes over, pulling me tight against his chest and grinding the heel of my hand against my pulsing need. He keeps pumping my finger in and out, and all the while, his cock thrusts against the thin cotton covering my ass.

“Sol… it feels so good. Your hands—”

My muscles tighten from the top of my spine down to the curl of my toes and I cry out as I ride the very tip of the swelling crescendo… and fall, wave after wave, like a cascade of octaves playing over my skin as I come.

His fingers keep up that rhythm until the song is too much to bear and I’m pushing him away while pulling him close at the same time.

Minutes, maybe hours, pass as I try to catch my breath. When I completely recover, Sol’s lips brush against the shell of my ear, sending tantalizing ripples of warmth down my body as he drags his fingers up my feverish skin.

Whiskey and sugar scents drift under my nose as his lips caress my ear. “I always knew pleasure would make you sing so pretty. I need you to know that no one but me will ever hear this song from you. The world can have Scarlett on stage, but only I get to hear ma jolie petite muse when she hits those high notes. Tell me you understand.”

I don’t… and I do at the same time. Exhaustion is finally winning out though, so instead of asking my phantom, my demon of music, what he means, I go with instinct and nod. “I sing for you, Sol. Only for you.”

He hums with approval. The soothing pitch drifts into varying musical notes until it becomes a familiar song. I want to sing it, but the entire embrace—his lullaby, his warmth, his scent, his power—lulls me to sleep better than any medication alone.