The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

1. They’re everywhere. Sketches. Hundreds of them. Me. Nude

1

They’re everywhere. Sketches. Hundreds of them. Me. Nude

Chapter Playlist:

“The Phantom of the Opera” – Nightwish Cover – (No judging! He was the original masked stalker!)

“Sweet Sacrifice” – Evanescence

“Lullaby” – the Cure

EVERLEIGH

The nude drawing was left on my pillow.

I shiver from where I sit at the table, insides cold and trembling as I study the familiar curves and contours of the woman in the drawing. Not completely nude since she’s wearing a dress, but it’s transparent, exhibiting the outline of her breasts and the faint imprint of her nipples, along with the soft triangle leading to a point between her thighs.

The woman in the charcoal sketch is me .

I turn, scanning the hotel room, my breath catching. It’s as if I can feel someone watching me. But that’s impossible since I shuttered the drapes and turned off all the lights, leaving nothing but my cellphone’s glow to see the art.

Yes, art. Because it’s beautiful, flawless. Some dark and twisted part of me admires it, appreciates it even. But the saner, more rational part, the kind that defines me as a logistical analyzer of facts and evidence, is all fear.

Knowing someone broke into my room while I was asleep, left the sketch on my pillow, and disappeared without a trace…sends ice into my very bone marrow.

Daylight peeks through the curtains, and I make a command decision.

I crumple the sketch, throw it in the nearest waste bin, and start packing. There’s an abandoned church in the Appalachians with my name on it.

One of the perks of my role as a historian consultant to the rich and elite: I can come and go as I please and choose my assignments for the most part. Since my client is one of the key shareholders in the Smithsonian, I get to fly first class on his dime.

If some crazy stalker is out there, the last thing I’m going to do is hang around and wait to get a knife handle shoved up my vag. As kinky as it seems in books, I’m not about to try it in real life.

I find the second sketch taped to my motel bathroom mirror. Only lingerie covers me in this one.

My heart spins off its axis, and dizziness clouds my vision as I peel it off and try not to choke as I read the words at the bottom.

Do not throw this one away, Little Quill.

I drop it. Clutch my throat. When my knees give out, I huddle into the corner of the bathroom, forming myself into a ball. Whoever this stalker artist is, he’s tracking me across the country. And he’s been watching me work. It’s antiquated, but I love the aesthetics of writing things down with a quill pen in my old leather journal. I’ll hunt antique shops for new ones to add to my collection.

He knows me.

Propping my head between my knees, I take deep breaths and sort out my thoughts, compartmentalizing them when I need to stem an anxiety attack.

He’s been in my room, two rooms at this point. He’s stalked me. But he hasn’t hurt me. Other than these sketches, he hasn’t contacted me.

It’s not like I’ve left a trail of spurned lovers behind me. I’ve had one. One former fiance. And that’s a whole sob story that will literally make me sob and break into a thousand pieces if I so much as remember how he died in a car crash…on the way to our wedding.

I’d take a jilted lover left at the altar any day over exchanging my wedding gown for a black funeral dress.

Before my memories suck me under, I glance up at the sketch again. More sick and twisted admiration ripples heat through me, but frustration and self-loathing curdle my blood. I get to my feet, grab the sketch from the sink, and clench my eyes, forcing myself to look away. But I can’t.

It’s beautiful.

This isn’t some pornified sketch with my boobs inflated from their smaller C-cups. It doesn’t exaggerate my soft curves. And despite the lingerie, the portrayal isn’t slutty. It’s sensual and enchanting. There are even a few rose petals scattered on the bed around my dark curls.

He captured my lines flawlessly.

What else has he seen? A cold sensation prickles my spine, and I look around, wondering if this stalker put cameras in my motel room. Is he watching me now?

I drop the sketch again.

With anger burning a lit fuse through my blood, I turn the water to hot and watch the charcoal bleed out, turning the sink dark before the paper slips down the drain. Guilt tightens my throat, but I swallow it, hoping it disappears as quickly as the paper just did.

Well…I didn’t actually throw it away.

A lightness fills my chest as I approach the AirBnB.

This time, my boss made all the arrangements. I said I didn’t want the destination until I was already on my way. At least I finished my last assignment. The chilly northwest coast will be perfect. All I know about this venture is it’s an abandoned chapel recently discovered near a condemned lighthouse.

When the Uber pulls up to the AirBnB, I smile, take a deep breath, and climb out of the car, tugging my suitcase along. To call it a cabin would be an understatement. More like a cabin-style manor.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots. It’s darker than I expected, the dense woods around the cabin swallowing the last traces of twilight. The golds, burnt oranges, and scarlet reds of the leaves like an autumnal regalia don’t bring me the usual comfort and nostalgia. My boss promised me this place was safe—untraceable. Still, I hold my breath as I glance around, swearing the shadows are clawing for me.

The mansion looms ahead. Massive beams frame a wall of windows glowing with golden light. Inside, I can see the warmth of a fireplace, welcoming me from the eerie, cold stillness outside. Luxury. That’s what this is. I should feel lucky, but I can’t shake the prickle on the back of my neck.

I clutch my bag tight, fumbling with the lockbox on the door. My fingers tremble, but the code works, and I step inside, locking the door behind me. The silence swallows me whole.

My heart leaps in my chest. It’s breathtaking. The kitchen gleams, all marble and polished wood, the space meant for magazine covers and celebrity chefs. It has every amenity I could possibly want and need. The inviting sitting room stretches before the fireplace, assuring me nothing bad could ever happen here. A perfect retreat for a historian. For the first time in days, I exhale.

I head for the bedroom upstairs with relief filling my chest.

The stalker couldn’t know about this place. It’s impossible. He couldn’t have?—

I freeze in the doorway, the breath knocked out of me. I nearly buckle.

They’re everywhere. Sketches. Hundreds of them. Me. Nude.

Icy fear spreads into my bloodstream. They’re pinned to the walls, dangling from the ceiling on strings, strewn across the bed, mixed with black rose petals speckled with red paint. Or…no. Please no.

My heart stutters, then races. I step back, but my heel catches on the doorframe, and I shriek, turning toward the stairs.

But when I rush out the door, the Uber’s already gone. No one is outside. I’m alone.

Dammit.

I scramble back inside, slam the door shut, and set the alarm, every motion sharp and mechanical. My hands are shaking as I dial my boss, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Of course.

A chill lurks along my spine with the gnawing question. What if he’s already here?

Grabbing the closest weapon I can, a fire poker, I search each room. “Come on, Evie, you can do this,” I whisper as I creep around the next door, my palms clammy as I hold the poker with a death grip.

What if he has a gun? What if he’s big and bulky and wearing a mask? Um…why did my thoughts just go there ? I blame dark romance culture.

Dammitdammitdammit.

I’m acting just like a stupid girl in a thriller film. I have a credit card. I should just check into some very populated hotel, right? But considering my last two experiences—he’d come while I was asleep—this may be a better option. Just clear all the rooms, change the security password to something long and numeral, and hole up until tomorrow.

After I search the place, even testing the walls and floors for any signs of hollowed passages, I return to the bedroom, pace the floor, my eyes darting back to the bed. The sketches mock me, taunting me with the declaration that he was here. I should throw them away. Burn them all.

Instead, I collect them, pulling them off the walls, gathering the ones on the bed, sweeping petals to the floor. When I have an armful, I carry them down the stairs to the main room…and start burning them in the fireplace. The edges curl black, the images of me fading into ash. I burn another. And another.

Until I can’t anymore.

Instead, I break down in tears, confirming how royally fucked up I am.

They’re beautiful. That’s the worst part. The lines, the shadows, the way he captures me like he knows me better than I know myself. It makes me sick.

I stagger to the bathroom and collapse in front of the toilet, retching until my stomach is empty. At least that is much more rational, my left brain congratulates me.

Now, I need to get the taste out of my mouth. So, I make a beeline for the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of wine, I yank out the cork and pour myself a glass. My hands are still trembling as I take it to the sitting room where I dump the sketches onto the coffee table.

At first, I sit, swirl my wine, and drink half the bottle while sorting through my options. After a few minutes, I settle on staying here, hoping I won’t turn out like some protagonist in a horror movie. Then again, if it’s only her, she usually survives. Lot of injuries but survival nonetheless.

What else am I supposed to do? Walk into a police station, drop the sketches onto the counter, and tell them I need a restraining order against some mystery stalker? I’ll sound like a crazy Booktok girlie! Not that restraining orders do much anyway.

If he can get to me in some secure, high-tech cabin off the grid, he can get to me anywhere. At first, I consider asking to stay with my boss. But the last thing I need is to create trouble and endanger my career. Not when I rushed through my last assignment. Not when I’m supporting my parents in a nice retirement home. I spent years working for this career, earning a proud Master’s Degree in History and a double minor in Folklore Studies and Cultural Heritage Studies. My Bachelor’s was in Journalism, but the past has always attracted me.

I prefer sadness and nostalgia to other emotions.

The sketches don’t provoke emotions of sadness or nostalgia. I study them, flipping through them, hoping for some clue. A signature. A style I recognize. Anything. I even research artists online, but it could be some anonymous street artist for all I know.

Nothing.

I drink more. Frustration swirls with fear, but I can’t focus. I open my journal, take out my quill pen, and scrawl across the page: What does he want?

The wine dulls the edge of my panic, and I curl up on the couch with the wool throw, exhaustion pulling me under. But the shadows on the ceiling still feel like they’re watching.