8. I am the mask. She is my muse
8
I am the mask. She is my muse
Chapter Playlist:
“Black Out Days” – Phantogram
ACHERON
She whispers my name like a prayer in the cold, stillness of her car.
I hear her breath catch, a tremor in her chest, and I can feel it, the way she tries to pull away, the way she tries to flee from the truth. But she can’t. She never could.
The rope is tight around her throat, not enough to choke, but enough to hold her in place, to remind her of my control.
I’m harder than a fucking rock. She will pay for her betrayal tonight.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice low and heavy with the gravity of the truth she’s been denying. “You think you can escape me by pretending I don’t exist?” I murmur, my words like a slow poison. “Denying me, Little Quill? That’s a sin in itself. You’ve been lying to yourself, and that lie is as much of an offense as destroying my art.”
She shudders beneath me, and I feel her pulse racing. She’s trying to fight it, trying to push me out of her mind, dissociating, but I hear her. I hear the way she moans when she sleeps, the way “Acheron” slips from her lips in the dark until she wakes with sweat clinging to her frame, her nipples pebbled and needy for my mouth, and wetness soaking her underwear.
“I hear you at night,” I continue, my voice a dark growl. “Whispering my name. You think you can hide from me, but I’m in your blood.”
Her eyes are wide, her lips parted in shock, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, something darker. It’s the recognition. She can’t outrun this. Not anymore.
I press the rope tighter, just enough to remind her of my power. “After tonight, you’ll never be able to run from me, hide, or deny me again.”
She gasps, a soft, helpless sound. She’s trying to breathe, but the weight of my presence presses down on her.
“I’m inside you now, Little Quill. In every dream you have, in every breath, I’m there. Your nightmare. You’ve known it all along.”
Her body stiffens, but I don’t let her move.
“Tonight, you betrayed me,” I whisper, my lips brushing her ear once more. “And now, there’s no turning back.”
“You didn’t have to?—”
I twist the rope, thrilling in the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I believe I’ve established your place in my life now, haven’t I, Everleigh Lennox? Did you believe I would allow any other man to touch you or replace my image in your mind?”
“He was a good guy!” she cries hoarsely, swallows hard, then struggles with the rope. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t going to—you’re a goddamn monster!”
“Yes,” I seethe, brushing the nose of my mask along her cheek, a broken nose, ruined like a corpse. Because she gets the horror tonight. “I’m the reason people lock their doors at night, believe in demons. I’m their darkest fantasies. I’m every fucking predator, serial killer, mafia lord, stalker, and rapist your twisted, little mind could ever conceive. Because I can be whatever the fuck I want to be. I’ve paid for that. You will pay the price to be my greatest work.”
“P-please!” she pleads weakly, trying to tug at the rope, but I tighten it, and I’ll cherish the marks.
“Yes, beg, sweet girl. Because, you, Little Quill, are mine . My historian, my woman, and my masterpiece in the making. You’re the art I will mold. I’ll desecrate you and violate you if I believe it will serve the bloody, gruesome business that is art. Creation is pain and pleasure, obsession and possession, fantasy and reality. It’s everything. It fills that hollow in our hearts and feeds upon our very souls. Tonight, I’ll have a piece of yours. Tomorrow? We will see.”
Before she can speak again, I reach into my pocket and tap the phone screen against her face, showing her the evidence. She gulps. Hot tears stream down her face as she takes in the sick messages of this “good guy” bragging to his friends about how he suckered another drunk, desperate girl. And the things he’d do to her later. I didn’t give a damn either way. I saw the message after his body was cold and swinging.
Twisting the rope stronger, I pull the lever on her seat and lower it just enough to give me more access to her. But I bind the rope to one of the handles in the backseat, keeping her in this position before I catch her thrashing hands, then pulling my knife on her. She freezes, but her breath is wild.
“How sweet…” I hum, tracing the knife along her breast where her nipple is so hard, it prods through the fabric of her bra and dress. “Your mind may lie, but your body cannot.” I trace the immaculate tip with the knife point, hearing her whimper.
In three seconds, I cut the straps of her little, black dress, exposing the alabaster skin of her upper chest and delicate collarbone. My eyes fall on the tender curve of her neck, a throat worthy of a vampire’s feast.
Her breath heaves and cleaves, plumping her pretty tits more. When I trail the point of the blade along that exquisite, narrow shadow between her breasts, she goes still, blinking, but more tears leave her eyes.
She won’t get my knife tonight. The knife is for scarring art upon the canvas of her flesh. No, tonight, she will get my teeth . A reminder of who has his jaws around her. But the blade serves its purpose when I drag it along her cheek and say, “Now, are you going to be a good girl and get in the passenger seat and allow me to drive you home with no protests?”
She clenches her eyes shut but purses her lips and nods weakly.
After I’ve shifted her to the other seat, I still bind her to it, ensuring she can’t move in the time that it will take to get to her apartment. Tonight, I will leave far more than a sketch on her bed.