The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

6. I’m in her mind, her body, her very soul

6

I’m in her mind, her body, her very soul

Chapter Playlist:

“Under My Skin” – Jukebox

“Ghost in the Machinery” – Sarah Brightman

ACHERON

The exhibit will be perfect.

I survey the cavernous gallery space—a blank canvas that will soon hold my triumph—a worthy sanctum of curated perfection, a theater of reverence for my art— for her .

It took all my resolve, all my goddamned control to leave her that night. Even when I cleaned the floor following her humiliation, I spent the rest of the evening in turmoil and ravenous hunger. How I fantasized about fucking her there and then with the fireplace glowing the redness in her cheeks, the piss on her thighs, and her screams filling my mouth. The sadist in me wants to know if she will bleed on my dick. But I’m not ready to break her…yet.

Our first time was like the discovery of uncut marble, knowing that each movement of a careful chisel, every sigh of a strike would turn into something divine. But I forced myself to step back, to leave her unfinished—for now. Perfection demands patience.

I’ve waited years for her. I demand nothing less than perfection.

I won’t protect her. I will poison her. But she will beg me for the cure until she understands I am not only the cure…I am the very air she breathes.

I allow my gaze to sweep over the reclaimed parquet wood flooring I invested in from a 17th-century French chateau. My lips curl into a smile as I imagine the remaining transformation. The artifacts I’ve acquired—priceless antiques, rare historical relics—will breathe life into this place. Their value lies in their craftsmanship and their storied pasts but most in what they will symbolize.

Everleigh will not break a single thing.

The thought of her delicate, trembling hands as she walks through this space intoxicates me. She won’t dare. I’ll watch her navigate my treasures like a fragile dancer, knowing she is forever trapped in my music box. My crowning masterpiece will belong to me completely. Irrevocably mine.

But first, there is work to be done.

What I feel for her goes beyond possession, it’s addiction, it’s obsession. It eats at the very essence of my sick soul. For too many years, I’ve kept that sickness at a comfortable level, channeling it into my work, into business dealings to grow my empire and all the taboo explorations of the underground lifestyle. But I’ve mastered everything too quickly from high-stakes poker to BDSM clubs. Some of my black market dealings and the strategic hits I arranged took the edge off for a while…

Nothing like her.

The moment Everleigh Lennox swept into my universe, my hunger erupted with every dark fantasy coming to life like showers of kaleidoscopic prisms.

I spend the morning coordinating with my business contacts. Each conversation is deliberate, my tone sharp and commanding as I arrange the finer details of the exhibit. It will double as an auction—art is always more alluring when unattainable, and my clients will clamor for the privilege of ownership. Each acquisition has been chosen with purpose.

They will not only bid on the artifacts that I’ve painstakingly procured—like the French writing desk once rumored to belong to a queen—they will bid on the privilege of watching me perform up close and personal.

But they will see Everleigh in her truth—raw, unmasked, and utterly real. She will not act. She will simply be —ignited by me, laid bare in her truth. She will burn, shatter, and unravel for me. And then, she will rise from the ashes as I piece her back together, stitch by stitch, stroke by stroke.

My cock bulges at the thought. I flex my hands inside my gloves, the tension mounting in my spine and shoulders. I’ve spent nearly every other waking moment in the gym. It’s the only thing that takes the edge off when thoughts, memories of her rise.

By the time I conclude my last call, the day is half gone, and satisfaction thrums beneath my skin. The exhibit and my vision are coming together.

Still, my thoughts drift to my Little Quill.

Two weeks may have passed since I made contact, but she has never left my sight.

I smirk at the knowledge of how she tried to reach out for help the morning after. Her boss dismissed her, citing stress and exhaustion, and the police found nothing since I erased myself from every security angle.

The first night she returned to her apartment, I watched her search for me .

It didn’t take her long to track down the infamous artist Acheron.

Performative artists of my caliber and fame are not simply rare. None others measure up to the accolades I slaved for, fought for, fucking bled for.

The dark craving in me had sharpened when I’d watched her sitting in the chair, clad in a silk, thin-strapped nightgown. The fabric showed the faint imprint of her rosy nipples as her expression shifted from curiosity to something softer, something…reverent. She spent hours glued to the screen. She devoured every performance I’ve ever created, her gaze lingering on my masked figure.

At one point, her fingertips traced the outline of my screen form, hesitating on the mask—as if she could feel me through the glass. I’d leaned closer to the monitor as if I could feel her in return. She doesn’t know how close I am, how I see everything. But she senses it.

She didn’t crumble. That’s what fascinates me most. Even as she faltered for two weeks, she didn’t retreat from life. I’ve seen her go to the coffee shop where she scribbles furiously in her journal, her brow furrowed in concentration. I watched her visit her parents in their senior’s home she paid for. Rest assured, once she’s in my possession, their bills will be fully covered. For years.

I’ve watched her meet friends, smiling faintly as if to reassure them everything is fine. She even visited an art museum, wandering through its halls like a lost soul searching for something—or someone.

At night, she’s struggled…and I’ve savored every moment—the way she tosses and turns, haunted by nightmares. My name whispered in the dark. No matter how much she’s filled her days, she cannot erase my touch, my breath, my voice.

I’m reviewing the final shipment manifests when the notification pings across my screen. She’s leaving.

I lower my brows in scrutiny since it’s after ten o’clock at night.

My cameras show her in her bedroom, standing before the full-length mirror. A growl rises in me. Black thoughts, sinful thoughts, a predator’s need all rise. Because She’s dressed to the nines in a sleek black dress that clings to her form like a second skin.

This isn’t like her. Everleigh is a creature of coffee shops and quiet places, not the electric chaos of nightclubs.

But then I see her phone on the bed, the screen lit with messages from her friends:

Come on, Evie! It’s our only night in town! Don’t be boring!

You need this. Just let loose for once.

Peer pressure. How quaint. I watch her sigh as she places her necklace around her throat, a silver heart locket from her parents, and picks up her phone. She hurriedly punches in the message:

Running late. Be there soon.

She slips on her heels and grabs her clutch, her movements hurried.

I should be focusing on my business dealings. The auction requires my full attention. But I can’t let her out of my sight—not tonight. Not when she’s stepping into a world that doesn’t deserve her.

A world nearly as cruel as me.

The nightclub is a cacophony of sound and light, an assault on the senses. I slip inside, unnoticed. The music vibrates its bass in my chest like a second heartbeat. I move with purpose, keeping to the edges, scanning the dance floor until I find her.

Everleigh.

She’s standing with her friends near the bar, a drink in her hand and a hesitant smile on her lips. She looks radiant, the dim lights catching the curve of her cheek, the shine of her hair. But there’s something else—a tension in her shoulders. She’s trying to lose herself, but she can’t.

I grin.

She’s thinking of me.

Everything in my dark, despicable soul wants to prowl my way toward her and give her every reassurance that her nightmares are real. The memory is real. I am real.

I watch as she sips her drink, wincing slightly at the alcoholic burn. One of her friends pulls her toward the dance floor, and she resists at first, shaking her head. But they insist, laughing and tugging at her arm until she relents. I follow, never taking my eyes off her.

She begins to move, her body effortlessly easing into the rhythm. Her limbs loosen, her edges softening. She sways to the tempo, her soft, slender hips rolling in time. Some of her dark hair escapes its bun in ravishing curls swinging at her sides. Something primal stirs within me. She’s beautiful—utterly mesmerizing. But I know what this is. She’s trying to escape.

From me.

From the memory of what I made her feel.

I’m torn between appreciation and resentment. She came alive for me in ways she never has, and now she dares to forget? To let go of the art— her maker ? The thought makes my jaw clench, my fists curling at my sides.

And then I see him.

A young man, confident and grinning, makes his way to her. He says something I can’t hear over the music, and Everleigh laughs— she laughs . It’s a small sound, fleeting, but it’s enough. He steps closer, his hands hovering near her small waist, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she dances with him. She reciprocates.

Something dark and violent coils in my chest, igniting a fierce jealousy that burns like acid in my veins. I want to tear him apart. I want to rip him from her and remind her who she belongs to. My fingers twitch at my sides, the urge to act nearly overwhelming.

She doesn’t see me watching, doesn’t feel the weight of my gaze as it sears into her. She’s too busy spinning beneath the stranger’s hands, and laughing. I can’t stand it. The sight of her with someone else—someone unworthy—makes my vision blur with rage.

She’s mine.

The thought echoes through me like a war drum. I have the means, the motive, and the skill to handle this matter with the surgical precision it requires, followed by the dramatic reveal to leave all her doubts to ruin.

Tonight, she will learn the grave mistake of poking the beast, of trying to escape his jaws. Instead, she will feel them grow stronger.

For now, I retreat to the shadows. I watch her dance, watch her smile, watch her try to forget. But I know the truth. She can dance with a thousand strangers, drink until the world blurs, until she loses herself—but she will never be free of me.

I’m in her mind, her body, her very soul.