The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

14. “Why did you choose me?”

14

“Why did you choose me?”

Chapter Playlist:

“Paradise Circus” – Massive Attack

ACHERON

Her ‘please’ undoes me.

After one more blink, I withdraw the key from my vest pocket, tug down her pajama pants, and fit the key into the lock. With one click, it detaches. Everleigh tenses, all her muscles bracing like she’s about to escape, kicking her legs the whole time.

Before she has the opportunity, I tighten my hold on her back, preventing her from moving. The sound leaving her mouth is halfway between a groan and a whimper.

“Shhh…” I calm her, cutting through her panic while sliding my gloved hand down to her pretty, plump bottom. Fuck, I love how she whimpers and buries her head in my chest as I part her cheeks and lower my fingers to her anus. “Deep breaths, Little Quill. Relax your muscles.”

After a few threadbare breaths, Everleigh sighs, drops her shoulders, and softens.

“Good girl,” I commend her, knowing how much she responds to the praise. She moans in confirmation. Slowly, I remove the plug. Her eyes flash to mine, tear-streaked, filled with horror and awe. No doubt feeling the burn as I eased it out of the ring—such a tight ring I look forward to fucking soon.

I rub the mouth of the mask along her brow, lower my other hand to her pretty pussy, and plunge two gloved fingers inside. They enter with ease. She hisses, and I smirk, rumbling a low sound of approval. So slick. So wet. So fucking?—

—“Soaked,” I murmur in her ear, drawing my nose along her cheekbone, smearing her tears as if blending transparent watercolors on a canvas. “Someone has been waiting for Master all day, hasn’t she?”

“Mmm.” She clenches, squeezing those needy inner muscles.

Smirk growing to a grin, I curl my fingers and revel in the little shriek she gives, how she grips my arms harder.

“Acheron!” she gasps and buries her head in my chest again, but she can never hide those blushing cheeks. God, I cannot wait until that melodic voice says my true name. My cock bulges, aching with the need to be inside her…her hot center clenching around my fingers.

She tries to jerk, but I’ve anchored my other hand at the base of her spine, keeping her here. No punishment tonight. After the day she’s had, after what she did—for me—, she deserves the reward. So, I twist my fingers in deeper, curve them, and rub my thumb upon her slippery clit.

Everleigh convulses. Fuck, I love how her whole body arches, those hips canting to my touch as she cries her pleasure into my shirt, painting the fabric with her watercolor tears. I withdraw my fingers and taste her fluids as I listen to the fallout of her breaths, those little cries. She doesn’t lift her head, but her body is hot against mine. Not merely from her vulnerability.

I stiffen at the sight of the empty liquor bottles, the scattered popcorn, and the dirty dishes in the sink. But the second she rubs her face against my shirt again, all is forgiven. There are worse coping mechanisms for what I put her through. And she still had the mental faculties to lie to the police on my behalf.

And the emotional faculties, I smile to myself.

Thank fuck! She doesn’t protest when I sweep her into a honeymoon hold and carry her to the bathroom. Just those little sounds I love. If they were colors, they could fill a whole gallery.

“Can you stand?” I ask once I have her in the bathroom.

She doesn’t lift her head, but she breathes a deep sigh, yawns, and mutters, “I don’t know.”

“Bath it is, then.”

“What?” she squeaks.

Without letting her go, I turn the hot water knob, balance it with the cold, and squeeze some of her bubble bath into the spray. Soon, she will leave behind this lesser lifestyle. And while mine will be an adjustment, the ultimate rewards will be far greater than she can imagine.

Lowering her to the floor but maintaining a vigilant hand to hold her upright, I slowly peel her camisole up.

“Wait, no, I—” she puts up a weak protest, and I have the thin shirt off before she can go on. Utterly naked before me. What a surface! What a framework of fantasy with her graceful contours and flawless alabaster skin with no freckles or blemish. Exquisite breasts, worthy of a classic sculptor, a master who would spend years perfecting them. Firm nipples, pink and dainty as the center of a rose. All the more accentuated by the thick but wispy dark hair falling in luscious waves down the sides of her body.

Exposed beneath the fluorescent lighting, she colors more, but it’s the first time those gray eyes have narrowed. Still so much spirit, but it’s clouded behind the unfocused haze of inebriation.

When I step forward, she staggers, caught off guard. I’m still holding her, but she seems to lose her nerve, lifting her arms to cover her chest.

I grip her wrists with my other hand and shake my head firmly. “If I want you naked, Everleigh Lennox, you will be naked for me.”

The spirit returns. She balls her hands into pretty fists and sticks her pert nose up at me, those pouty lips pressing into a frown. Heat drives a hard target straight to my cock, bulging the muscle to the painful point against my pants. But I don’t flinch. I deadpan to ensure she knows who is in control.

I need her in the water before I do something I’ll regret. And I would regret it here. A hiss leaves her throat as I lower her into the bath. Her whole body shivers, adjusting to the temperature.

I don’t scold her when she curls into herself, knees drawn to her chest, as if seeking refuge. The frothy bubbles cling to her pale skin, her dark hair pooling around her like ink. She looks like a siren rising from the depths—a creature who could steal a man’s soul with a single glance. She stole mine that morning in the cemetery.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice trembling as I settle on the tiled ledge behind her.

I dip my hand into the water, gathering a cascade to soak her hair. “Washing your hair.”

She stiffens, but I’m patient, working the water through the silken strands. After a few moments, I turn the faucet off.

“Why me?” she whispers barely above the sound of the water lapping. “Why did you choose me?”

My hands pause. “I didn’t,” I say, my voice low but certain. “You chose me.”

She shifts, turning her head to glance back at me, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“The first time I saw you…” I continue, my fingers threading through her hair again, “was in the cemetery. You emerged through the mist like a mirage, speaking to the graves as if they were old friends. It wasn’t just haunting; it was art in motion. You weren’t a muse in the making—you were a muse in the being. Something I’ve spent my life searching for.”

Her breath catches, her body stilling as my words sink in. She tips her forehead onto her knees, trying to calm her breaths, but it doesn’t stop her from trembling as I brush my gloved knuckles along the back of her shoulder.

“I’ve shed blood for you, Everleigh,” I murmur, my voice thick with something I can’t quite name. “And it won’t be long now.”

Her head tilts, her lips parting as she whispers, “What won’t?”

I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear as I say, “The moment the world will bow, not to me, but to the art I’ve made of you. The masterpiece I was destined to create.”

“God complex, much?” she mutters.

I snicker. “Hardly.”

“Says the guy with the stage name of Acheron, “God of Art”.”

“Rinse,” I command.

Holding her nose, Everleigh disappears beneath the frothy water before rising, quicker than I anticipated. Hmm…she’s curious. Her eyes are still unfocused from the liquor, but she trains them on me.

After shifting her hair to her front, I dig my fingers into the tension in her neck, amusement rippling in my chest at the longing moans coming from her lips. “Acheron was my chosen stage name. “God of Art” was a cult name that grew. So, if you have a problem with it, I suggest you take it up with my global audience of worshipers.” I smirk.

She scoffs, water dripping from her chin as she narrows those stormy gray eyes at me. “Worshipers? You’re insufferable.”

“Am I?” I counter, sliding my fingers lower, tracing the curve of her shoulder. Her breath catches, and I lean closer, my voice dropping to a low hum. “Or are you simply not ready to admit that you’ve already joined their ranks?”

Her laugh is sharp, defiant, but she shudders. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” I ask again. “All the greatest artists are, Little Quill. It’s part of the job description. But when the world sees you for what you are—the thing I’ve pulled from the depths to create—they’ll understand the truth.”

“What truth?”

When I lock eyes with her, she goes stiller than ever. I claim her chin, twisting her face closer and hovering above her lips to finalize, “The truth is that everything I’ve done, every move I’ve made, every brushstroke of my hand, has been for this moment. For you.”

The faintest flicker of anticipation dances across her features, and I let it linger, let it take root. Soon, the world will see what she’s meant to be. The essence of something eternal, the culmination of every piece of my soul poured into this flawless vessel.

“Are you going to tell me your real name?” Everleigh yawns as I tuck her into bed, following her bath and changing into a vintage silk nightgown I brought her. She wasn’t about to argue when she realized it was a negligee from the early 1900s with a bodice bustline of imported lace and a ruffle trim. The sensuous flowing satin fabric embraces her curves as if it were painted upon her frame.

“Not yet.”

I lift the sheets and climb in behind her, and she tenses. “What are you doing?” One split second with my hands on her hips, and she’s trying to escape. “Please don’t put it on again!” she cries, holding a pillow for purchase as I tug her back.

Before she breaks down again, I weave a hand around her pelvis, anchoring her to me, and clutch her throat with my other. A power move that captures her attention. “Shh…you earned freedom from the chastity belt, Little Quill.”

I take solace when she softens, sinking deeper onto the bed and against me, her willowy body molding to mine like a dream.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, would it have?” she murmurs, clinging tighter to the pillow.

“Hmm…” I inhale the scent of her hair, reading between the lines. “No. I have a state and federal judge in my pocket as well as a senator. Not to mention several questionable connections who could easily enforce a little heart attack, drug overdose, or car accident for anyone who believes they can meddle in my affairs.”

“So, you’re not just rich. You’re connected .”

“Does that make a difference to you?”

“Psychologically, yes. Emotionally, no.” Sbe pauses but then shrugs. “A little emotionally, I guess.”

“Good girl.”

She feels too sinful in this thin eclipse of fabric. Too sinful to resist cupping her soft breast and playing with the erect nipple. “Your gesture of lying for me only confirms you know who owns you, and it will not go without reward,” I hint and lower my palm to cup her center while fondling her luscious breast.

“Please, Acheron, I-I need, need to sleep…” she pleads.

I pause. Her little bottom is wiggling, tormenting my cock with her desire, but I also recognize her exhaustion. Infinite days and nights are waiting for me to reward her…and punish her. So, I slide my hand from her pussy to rest on her stomach. Then, I prop my other above her head, occasionally stroking the strands along her temple. She relaxes, her breaths deepening.

“I only lied because I didn’t want to get locked up in the loony bin,” she mutters, yawning again.

Chuckling darkly, I rub my lips along the back of her head and say, “Whatever you say, Little Quill.”

Once she’s been asleep for some time, I ease my way out of the bed, knowing she’s out for the rest of the night.

I slowly and tenderly shift her hair away from the back of her neck. Because I came prepared. It’s time to implement the next part of my plan. This part will enable me to monitor her before I induct her into the exhibit.

I inject her with the sedative again to ease the process. She will wake with a slight ache at the base of her neck, but the discomfort will fade by the end of the day.

After, I clean her apartment because I’m not about to have my art damaged in any way before her ascension, I throw away any food that does not meet my standards while ordering a healthier selection.

Next, I cut up the few credit cards she possesses. I will provide for her now.

I end the night with a sketch—watercolor this time, all shades of gray and blue of her in the bath. As usual, I leave it on her pillow with black rose petals scattered around it.

Once I’m finished, it’s well into the wee hours of the morning. I expect her to sleep in, but I don’t have that luxury. Before the weekend is out, the exhibit will be finished. And Everleigh will be its heart and soul.