16. “You’ve turned my passion into a prison.”
16
“You’ve turned my passion into a prison.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Flesh” – Simon Curtis
“Like That” – Sleep Token
ACHERON
If I plunge a single finger inside her, I know she will come.
My pulse careens through my veins as I train my eyes on her reddened ass and listen to her frantic breaths. By now, she’s spit out my leather glove. Every breath, every sound, every flick of movement hardens my dick more.
Everleigh Lennox is everything I’ve dreamed of.
The perfect storm. She has enough spirit to feel alive, enough defiance to challenge me, enough kindness to look beyond my mask, and enough sexuality to embrace her darker desires. An impassioned energy exists in her blood. Such energy comes alive whenever I touch her. Here and now, it’s fucking dripping off her. Every response she’s given me is as it should be. Raw. Genuine. Real.
Whatever secrets, whatever demons she may struggle with, my Little Quill is the most honest person who ever walked the earth—even when she’s lying to herself. She could never lie to me.
Her cunt is so hot beneath my leg, juices trickling onto my pants. Supple tits flushed with heat and heavy when I brush my knuckles along the swell through her thin blouse. She trembles, thrusting her hips again. A sensual dream.
I cannot afford to let such a dream rule me. I am the master of her dreams and my own. She cannot unite with me. She will grow from me as only the greatest art can.
Everleigh will soon understand the dark master beyond the artist who can summon the world to bow at his feet.
In time, she will kneel before me with every fiber of her being.
Slipping my hand beneath the edge of her shirt, I plant my palm upon her lower back, then gather her hair with my other hand. Summoning her, I yank her head until her eyes meet mine.
Oh, my naughty girl. “Look at me,” I growl. I smirk at the deep blush in her cheeks, red as roses on fire.
She sucks in a deep breath, grits her teeth, and says, “No.”
I chuckle. Deeply. A dangerous amusement pulsates through me, hardening my cock to its breaking point. “Oh, Everleigh. The infinite number of ways I will hurt you.”
She swallows hard, putting up a brave front, but more tears escape. Her breaths grow more shallow. Such delicious tears. I get off on her fear, her pain. I get off on every emotion she gives me.
“Is that what you need?” she mutters, pressing her lips into a tight seam, but she still doesn’t open her eyes. “I already knew you were a control freak, egomaniac, power-hungry one-man empire. But you need the torture and the pain to get off?”
How does this willowy, little girl manage to test me so—especially with her eyes shut?
Loosening my grip on her hair, I lay her head down so one side still faces me before trailing a finger along her inflamed ass. Her soft cry jerks my dick. “With you, Little Quill? I get off on everything . You are my eternity. The rebirth of every canvas, every surface I could ever desire. Every emotion you gift me is another shade of your soul. I will bring those shades to life.”
“You need me to save you or something? Absolve you?”
I throw my head back and laugh heartily, patting one plump cheek. If her face could catch fire, it would, but she maintains her resolve—spine tightening.
Turning back to her, I steel my jaw and respond, “Do I look like a man who craves absolution?”
She parts her lips, but the soft shake of her head is sweet and submissive. “If I sought a savior, I would carve one from the stars itself. But I prefer my sins in full, vivid color. What I want and need most is you, the star stuff you are, the elements of Everleigh Elizabeth Lennox.”
Finally, she opens her eyes, greeting me with a cold, gray moonlight.
Her lips tremble, and I see the fight warring in her eyes—the urge to argue and deny me her surrender. But her silence is a symphony, and I am the maestro.
I trail my fingers along her jawline, tilting her face up so she must meet my gaze. “Do you know what that makes you, Little Quill?” I murmur dangerously, like a predator to his prey.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t answer. Brave, foolish girl.
“It makes you mine. Every thought, every tear, every defiant heartbeat—mine to shape, mine to break, mine to birth.”
Her eyes cut against mine. She knows she can’t escape. When flight is no longer an option, she will give me her fight. And when she does, I will meet her on the battlefield…and crush her every damn time.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the delicate curve of her throat. “You’re tired, aren’t you, Everleigh?” I whisper. “So much running, so much resistance. After your punishment, you deserve to rest.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, suspicion flickering like a candle in a storm. “What are you?—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to her lips, silencing her. “No more questions. Just sleep.”
From my pocket, I retrieve the small vial I’d prepared. She jerks slightly as I inject her, but she’s too exhausted.
Her lashes flutter, and her body slackens. “There you go, Little Quill,” I murmur, cradling her like a precious treasure. “Drift away.”
I lean against the one-way glass, arms crossed, savoring the sight of Everleigh stirring.
After drugging her, I’d bathed her, braided her hair in intricate designs, and changed her into the vintage lace nightgown I’d first sketched upon her captured form.
It’s everything I planned and plotted for so many years. It clings to her like a second skin, soft and sheer, leaving just enough to the imagination. She shifts against the silk sheets, her gray eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep. Confusion knots her brows, those storm-cloud eyes darting around the room.
The stage is set. Now, I shall enjoy how she performs in real life.
She’s mesmerizing. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling beneath the delicate fabric. She brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, her fingers trembling as she sits up. The bed creaks beneath her.
“Hello?” Her voice is tentative, laced with uncertainty. “Where the hell am I?”
She blinks a few times, adjusting her vision.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug. I chose it specifically for her—rich burgundy with intricate gold patterns, a piece of history beneath her toes. She stands, her posture tense, and glances around the room again. The writing desk catches her eye, the Tiffany lamp beside it casting a warm, golden glow.
“Hello?” she calls louder this time, more panic. “Is anyone there?”
I suppress a smile, watching her unravel. It’s like observing a butterfly caught in a jar, beautiful and desperate. She crosses the room, pressing her frantic hands against the glass.
It’s the size of a small suite. Large enough for an attached bathroom and sitting area with an old, black-and-white silent film projector. I eagerly await her tinkering with it.
But first…
“Let me out of here!” she screams, marching for the glass, and pounding her fists against the barrier. The sound echoes through the exhibit. “You’ve gone way too far, Acheron! Open this door right now!”
Her fists rain down on the glass, her face contorted in anger. “You sick, twisted bastard! I swear, if you don’t open this door, I’ll?—”
I chuckle softly, though she can’t hear. She’s exquisite, her emotions raw and unfiltered. True.
She spins around, her gaze landing on the rocking chair near the bed. I see the decision forming in her mind. Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowing with determination.
“Don’t do it, Little Quill.”
She marches to the chair, her small frame trembling as she lifts it. The wood creaks under her grip, the legs wobbling slightly as she hefts it into the air. She turns back to the glass, her expression defiant, and raises the chair above her head.
I press the intercom button, my voice calm and smooth as it fills the room. “You may want to think twice about that, Everleigh.”
She freezes, the chair still raised. Her head snaps toward the source of my voice, her lips curling into a snarl. “Think twice about what, you asshole?”
“Look at the chair,” I say, my tone measured, almost amused. Heat surges to my cock.
Her gaze drops to the chair in her hands. She blinks, then gasps, her grip loosening slightly. She lowers it slowly, her hands trembling as she sets it down with exaggerated care.
“That,”—I tell her—“is an original Shaker rocking chair from the late 1700s. Priceless. Perhaps you would care to inspect the rest of the room?”
She stares at the chair, her expression one of disbelief and horror. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the writing desk, the gilded mirror, the antique armoire.
“Oh, you…” she snarls. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, you smug bastard hoarder!” She shakes her fist, crosses her arms over her chest, and stomps about the room. Fuming the whole time. How fucking hard it gets me. “This is psychological warfare, you walking auction house with an ego problem and undoubtedly daddy issues! Do you get off on knowing I can’t even throw a tantrum without damaging history?!” she accuses. “You knew I wouldn’t destroy any of this.”
“Guilty as charged,” I reply, leaning closer to the glass.
She spins on her heel, her fists clenched at her sides. “Fucking hate you,” she spits, her voice cracking with frustration. “You’ve turned my passion into a prison . I hope you choke on your self-righteousness, you irredeemable bastard!”
I smirk, watching her pace the room like a caged animal. Her anger is palpable, radiating off her in waves. She glares at the glass. The one with antique stained glass from the Renaissance period.
“I hate you so much,” she snaps, voice trembling.
“Noted,” I murmur, the corners of my mouth twitching.
She lets out a frustrated growl, her hands tugging at her hair. Slowly, her anger begins to ebb, replaced by reluctant curiosity. She approaches the writing desk, her fingers brushing the intricate carvings.
Fuck, she’s a vision. She’s forgotten all about her state of dress, but her nipples pebble as she takes in the historic artifact. She gets off on history like I get off on my art.
She moves to the bookshelf, her eyes scanning the leather-bound tomes. Pausing on an ornate book, she pulls it out, flipping through the yellowed pages with reverence.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
My chest tightens at Dorian shifting beside me. His tattooed arms crossed as he watches her with rapt attention. I’d almost forgotten about him. I’d wanted to savor this first sight of her, but I never expected my “apprentice” to pay for the deluxe package. A VIP behind-the-scenes access. He was the only one, considering what an exorbitant rate I charged. Part of me knows he did it solely to curry favor.
Dorian has opened for my performances a few times. But he knows he can’t hold a candle to the “God of Art”. I imagine it must have cost him the equivalent of multiple tours to enjoy the deluxe package.
His long blonde hair falls over his shoulder, framing his angular face. The ink on his skin is a tapestry. He’s like a glorified elf meets a mafia overlord. A pity he is a mafia overlord’s son and therefore has the connections I must maintain.
Keep your friends close and your rivals closer .
“She’s magnificent,” he says in a voice like worship.
I stiffen, my gaze snapping at him. Dorian is an artist, but his tattoos are his legacy, each design meticulously etched into his flesh. He has ink. I have scars. And a handful of tattoos. A quite prominent one.
“Look, but don’t touch,” I say, my voice cold and sharp.
Dorian smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Acheron. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“See that you don’t.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
He chuckles, his dark eyes returning to Everleigh. “She’s a natural performer.”
“She’s not performing ,” I growl. “She’s living. Breathing. Being.”
Dorian tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re sure she’s not wasted on you?”
I turn to him, my gaze icy. “Careful, Dorian.”
He raises an eyebrow, his smirk lingering.
I turn back to the glass, my possessiveness tightening like a vice around my chest. Everleigh is mine—my creation, my obsession, my Little Quill. And no one, not even Dorian, will come between us.
She’s moved to the vanity now, her fingers wandering across the delicate carvings. Her anger has faded, replaced by awe as she takes in the room. She’s soaking it all in, every detail I painstakingly curated.
Pride swells in my chest. She’s everything I imagined and more, a perfect blend of fire and grace. And now, she’s mine.