The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

12. “It will be an exhibit of violent beauty, as only the God of Art can give.”

12

“It will be an exhibit of violent beauty, as only the God of Art can give.”

Chapter Playlist:

“Monsters” - Ruelle

ACHERON

I push through the cool water of the pool, each stroke a calculated effort to maintain the physique I need for my audience.

The rhythmic motion of my arms and legs feels almost meditative. The water’s resistance forces my body to stay sharp and in control. The deep blue beneath me is calming, but I can’t escape the thoughts that keep creeping in—Everleigh. Her defiance, her passion, her surrender, her presence…she’s an impossible distraction.

Especially when I remember how fucking perfect her throat felt wrapped around my cock. How sweet she was when she responded. Not out of need to impress like hundreds of other girls I’ve honored with my dick.

I felt the desire in her body, her vulnerability, and the power she took through her submission. Fucking flawless.

I reach the edge of the pool and pull myself up, dripping wet, muscles aching but satisfied. The gym is my next stop. It’s not just vanity. Running in the circles I do, staying in shape isn’t just for the performance. It’s survival. Strength keeps you on top. Strength keeps you untouchable.

In my wet boxers, the towel wrapped around my shoulders, I move to the weight racks. The clank of iron fills the air as I settle into my body-building routine. I must maintain my power when running in the black market circles and the violent underground.

Now more than ever. Because of her. Tomorrow will begin her introduction into my world. A world she has no place in. One far too dark to touch someone with the soft gray of her spirit mirrored in her misty eyes…just like the mist she passed through like an angel in that cemetery. She will be exhibited for the art she is. And while others will watch the raw reality she will bring—the ultimate fantasy no performance practice could bring—she still belongs to me. Look but don’t touch. I will protect my muse and masterpiece.

That first time I saw her, she touched each grave with her pale hand, tracing the faded carvings of the names, gracing the stones with her presence. She spoke to them, revered the echoes of history in such a way that made my heart fucking clench. Because she treated the pieces of history like art, a gift of art.

In that moment, I knew Everleigh Lennox was the living embodiment of what I’d spent my life searching for. Not just a sycophantic fangirl wanting me to sign her goddamn tits. But one who could bond with my soul.

She didn’t even know who I was.

I laugh internally as I add two more weights and bench press 300 pounds with no safeguard. She challenges me. Not to become a better man. No, she forces me to become a darker man, one who would drown the world in blood for her. And leave a trail of corpses of anyone who would dare touch her.

I’m so focused on the burn that I don’t hear him at first.

“Boss,” my manager’s voice cuts through the haze of exertion.

I turn, setting the weights on their bar, and wipe the sweat from my brow, my eyes narrowing as I meet his gaze. “What?”

“Pardon the disturbance. But they’ve got him,” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “The customs agent. We tracked him down. He was trying to escape on a private flight, but the enforcers you sent caught him before he could leave.”

Ira turns to me. “Also, your agent left a message, sir. He wants to know your decision on the next tour.”

My mind shifts gears. My next tour? It’s not happening.

“Forget the tour,” I say, my voice sharp. “What I’m about to do with this exhibit will bring in ten times the income. Maybe more.”

A quick glance at the clock tells me I’m running out of time. The meeting with the client is coming up. An idea forms. A perfect way to relieve tension and appease my client.

First, I need the mask.

They hang upon the walls of my suite. My treasured art. Each one handmade. Each one painted by my professional and passionate hand.

But I don’t choose just any mask. No, this one is special. Black-painted eyes, violent blood drops, and surreal skull symbols mark its surface. It’s a reminder of who I am, of what I do. I fix it to my face with practiced ease.

My suit is tailored perfectly, dark and sharp, the fabric catching the light in all the right ways. I adjust the cuffs, the collar, making sure everything is in place. There’s a meeting to attend, a client to impress, and the world is waiting for me to remind them who’s in control.

Everleigh’s face flashes in my mind again.

As if by fated intervention, the motion detector on my smartwatch beeps an alarm that she is rising for the morning.

I monitor the cameras as she stirs. My lips press into a smile as she lifts the sheet and screams at the cold metal around her waist.

The fire in her eyes amuses me—she’s a tempest, a wild thing trying to claw her way out of her cage. I can see the anger bubbling beneath her skin, her hands trembling as she fights against the restraints, but I’m pleased.

I can’t help but chuckle under my breath as she spits her insults, her voice sharp with rebellion. “Picasso wannabe,” she sneers, her eyes flashing with fire. “Personality of a palette with shit for paint.” The words are as crude as they are clever. I’m impressed. She’s quick, even when furious, and it amuses me, though she will pay for it later.

She has spirit, an undeniable strength, even in her rage.

Still, she’s testing me, pushing me to see how far she can go before I break her. But I’m not bothered. No, I’m pleased. She’s still underestimating me, thinking she can push my buttons and escape unscathed.

I’ll let her have her little tantrum for now, but soon, I’ll show her exactly who’s in charge of all her affairs, including her very breath.

Once she gets in the shower, I turn off the live feed, switch to business mode, and prepare to meet my client.

Cigar smoke curls around me, thick and pungent, as I sit back in the leather chair, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass. Whiskey on the rocks.

The dim light of the lounge casts long shadows, the kind that hide secrets in plain sight. My client, a man of considerable wealth and questionable reputation, leans in, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the deal we’ve been circling for weeks. He’s the type who thinks money can buy anything—and in most cases, he’s right. But with me, it’s different.

I select my clients with calculated care. Most are like me, but they maintain a life of isolation and privacy. The kind who do not hesitate to sign an NDA that would cost them billions if they choose to break it. The kind who have longstanding business relations with me and know how I operate.

When you have built a one-man empire, you are granted more respect and acclaim than those birthed with underworld connections or bloodlines.

Soren Crowe. A billionaire with a reputation for funding illegal, artistic ventures. His appetite for the extreme is well-known. And for using his influence to acquire what others can’t, often leaving a trail of bodies behind him.

Crowe takes a long drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly before he speaks. “A generous down payment, Acheron. For the opportunity to witness your ultimate genius ,” he says smoothly but with an impatient edge. “I trust that won’t be wasted.”

I smile, the expression as cold as the drink in my hand. “Your money will be well spent,” I assure him, my tone unyielding. “I make no excuses for the delays in the shipment. But rest assured, the matter will be dealt with.”

His eyebrow quirks, intrigued. “Dealt with? What do you mean by that?”

I take a slow sip of my drink, savoring the burn as I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “You’re about to find out.”

Without further ado, my security enters the lounge with the customs agent in hand. Beaten to a pulp but left alive. My manager follows.

I set my glass down and rise. The client’s eyes widen in amusement as he watches me circle the agent, his lips curling into a grin. “Impressive,” he says, enjoying the display.

They’ve placed him on his knees, handcuffed, trembling. His eyes dart nervously as I approach. I savor his fear.

Folding my hands behind my back, I circle him slowly, my gaze cold, calculating. “You thought you could steal from me, didn’t you?” I keep my voice low, the mask making it impossible to read my expression.

The worm shrinks, lowering his head. Ever since Everleigh, I’ve spent the past couple of weeks buying up artifacts and priceless art. Auctions. Wealthy private clients. Some I’ve procured from the black market. And all require going through customs with agents paid well to rush my orders and maintain my required secrecy.

“But you didn’t just steal from me,” I inform him, squaring my broad shoulders. I stop behind him, the air thick with dangerous tension. “You tried to steal from her .”

The agent flinches, his breath hitching. “Who is her ?” he whispers, his voice shaky, desperate.

The client leans back in his chair, swirling his drink as he watches the scene unfold. “And what happens now?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

I take my time, letting the silence stretch. Finally, I speak. “Now, he learns the consequences of his actions.”

With a flick of my wrist, I give the signal, and my manager steps forward, handing me the prepared dagger, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light. Without hesitation, I slit the agent’s throat. He’s not worth taking my time. His body jerks, a gurgling sound escaping his mouth as blood spills across the floor. I kick his lifeless form, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoing in the silence.

I turn to my manager. “Clean it up.”

Ira doesn’t flinch. He’s used to this. Him and his icy Russian blood serve as a watchful protector of my affairs, unafraid when I must do my dirty work. A gift from the Bratva after I did them a service.

After Ira orders my security to deal with the body, I take my seat again, tap the armrest, and finish my whiskey.

The client’s gaze is fixed on me, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “That was… efficient,” he says, his tone almost approving. “But tell me, Acheron, what exactly is this exhibit of yours? I’m sure you’ve got something grand planned. Will you give me a little more information?”

I lift my glass to him, the dark liquid swirling as I take another sip. “I will give you no more than what you already know,” I say, my voice steady and commanding. “It will be an exhibit of violent beauty, as only the God of Art can give.”

His lips twitch into a smile, but there’s something darker behind his eyes now, something that tells me he’s intrigued, but not entirely satisfied. “I trust it will be worth the wait.”

I lean back in my chair, watching him carefully. “It will be. But like all things worth having, it will come at a price.”

He nods, clearly understanding the unspoken implication.

The conversation shifts, but I can feel the weight of his expectations hanging in the air. He’s a man who thrives on power, and I’m playing the game on my terms. I’ll give him what he wants but only when I’m ready. And when I do, it will be a masterpiece that leaves him—leaves everyone—gasping for more.