The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

17. “How does my exhibit meet with your historian’s eye?”

17

“How does my exhibit meet with your historian’s eye?”

Chapter Playlist:

“Dark Paradise” – Lana Del Rey

“Clair de Lune” - Debussy

EVERLEIGH

I don’t know who I am more enraged at. Acheron or myself, knowing I could never lay a finger on any of these treasured beauties.

My blood boils more than ever! It boils as much as the redness on my ass, the raised welts.

After I set the rocking chair down, I scream through all corners of my mind. Cherry! What do you say now, huh? Because I know she likes a cage as much as me.

After a silent pause, I unleash a high-pitched feminine scream, CHERRY !

WHAT?! She spits out, poking her head from the bathroom, her hair and body wrapped in a towel, her wings still wet and drooping. I was taking a bath, you ninny! And…masturbating to Acheron.

I storm toward her with my hands clenched into violent fists of fury.

She doesn’t even flinch, but she does poke my chest. Oh, come on now, Evie. You can’t deny how swoon-worthy this is. This is a dream come true! An immersive experience.

I’ll immerse you…in boiling water you crazy toad whore.

This is a vintage-wrapped nightmare! I’m having a psychotic breakdown. I need therapy.

I am your therapy, honeybun. Don’t act like you’re not a tiny bit impressed by his commitment. That man went all in.

All in on a hostage experience!

Says the girl who’s studying the writing desk in intricate detail, searching for hidden nooks. My chest tightens.

She yawns, patting her mouth. You say hostage situation, I say immersive historical experience. Tomato, tomahto.

You’re the worst inner voice ever. I’d like to speak to the manager of my psyche! I wonder if I could exorcise you. I contemplate all the ways.

Then, who will keep you entertained in such a charming prison?

At first, I open my mouth, but I don’t really have an answer.

Blame me all you want, Sugar Lips, but deep down, you’re loving the attention. Cherry blows me a kiss, her infernal wings vibrating with her arousal. Besides, you’ve fantasized about worse. Do I need to bring up your pirate phase? Let’s be honest… she says while removing the towel and shaking out her wet curly pink hair. You’re mad because he knows you better than you know yourself.

She’s right. So fucking right. Me wandering around and inspecting the valuables in this exhibit confirms it.

Do you want me to hold your hand while you stomp around or are you good? she volunteers, dressed in a mini skirt and corset bodice.

I’m not good. Far from it. So, I accept her hand, coping in the only way I know. I practically just talked myself out of hating whatever this is. Eventually, it’s going to slam against me hard, and I’m going to crash. But I’m sure Acheron will be there when it does.

There, now , Cherry comforts me, tilting her head onto my shoulder. How are you?

I wince because even the clear walls have Renaissance-era stained glass windows. I could never bring myself to shatter the glass. Even the floor is a masterpiece. The bed is from the Rococo period.

Only now I realize all I’m wearing is a sheer nightgown. My nipples protrude through the silk, and the outline of my pussy is prominent.

I look around for something, but the antique wardrobe has even skimpier pieces of fabric, all vintage. Because I can’t even rip the clothes apart in this goddamned gallery.

Eventually, I give up trying to find something, and I wrap the satin sheets of the bed around myself while taking the time to explore.

This place…this exhibit is a suite. It’s a living museum, a symphony of history and artistry, designed to torment me. Cherry lights up my vision next to me, her hand is warm in mine, grounding me as my eyes flit over the overwhelming beauty of this gilded prison.

The attached bathroom is a marvel of gilded antique furnishings. The claw foot tub gleams like liquid gold with a pristine, porcelain interior. The sink is mounted on a carved marble pedestal with swan neck-shaped faucets. Even the mirror is a work of art. The floor tiles form a mosaic of intricate floral patterns, and the air smells faintly of lavender and aged wood.

The sitting room next to the bedroom is small and cozy with a black-and-white silent film from the 1920s flickering on an old projector, casting shadows that dance across the room like restless spirits. A tufted fainting couch sits in the center, its upholstery a deep emerald green, inviting and infuriatingly perfect.

Infuriating. Acheron is infuriating .

All this beauty feels like it’s scolding me.

Even the floor is a masterpiece. It’s a mosaic of parquet wood, I’d wager French from the 17th century.

And then there’s the bed. A monumental piece from the Rococo period, its headboard carved with swirling designs of roses and vines. A sheer otherworldly canopy surrounds it. Silk sheets and velvet throws complete the ensemble, all in shades of cream and gold.

Cherry tilts her head onto my shoulder, her voice soft but teasing. You’re fighting it so hard, but admit it, you’re impressed, aren’t you?

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Or I’m just plotting his demise.”

Well, if you’re going for dramatic, you might as well start with a monologue in front of that Renaissance stained glass. Nothing says ‘I’m about to end you’ like a good, theatrical speech while surrounded by priceless antiques. Or you could throw yourself down onto the bed and weep profusely.

Why do I even listen to you? You’re like a broken compass pointing straight to disaster.

You say the sweetest things, Evie, she kisses my cheek and struts about the room.

You’re not just an inner voice. You’re an inner saboteur.

Self-sabotage has always been your thing, Evie. Hasn’t it?

Don’t push it, I warn her in a feral tone. I’m in a historian’s worst nightmare and wet dream all rolled into one. My voice cracks slightly, and I hate myself for it.

But for now…I’ll take whatever small comfort I can get…before the crash.

Cherry just hums and brushes her thumb against the back of my hand. It’s a small, almost motherly gesture that makes me want to scream. And cry.

I pace the room hesitantly. My fingers itch to touch each artifact, but I hold back, my respect outweighing my fury. A delicate porcelain vase catches my eye followed by a grandfather clock.

Cherry’s voice breaks the silence. You know, if you’re not careful, you might actually start to appreciate this.

I shoot her a glare, though it lacks real heat. More like restraining-order worthy.

Her lips twitch into a mischievous smile. Good luck with that. I’ll just be over here, admiring the view. And by ‘view,’ I mean that bed. You should try it out. Looks comfy.

She flits away, makes a show of fainting on the bed, and starts touching herself…no doubt masturbating to Acheron again.

I ignore her—and ignore the heat flooding my system—and move to the bookshelves. Each tome feels like a secret, a story waiting to be uncovered. Curiosity flickers like a small ember I can’t extinguish.

From somewhere beyond the one-way glass, I know he’s watching. I can feel his gaze like a weight on my shoulders, heavy and possessive. I can almost hear his smug voice in my head. Look at her, my Little Quill, taking it all in. Exactly as I knew she would.

I hate him for being right. I hate him for knowing me so well. But most of all, I hate that a part of me—however small—feels a twisted sense of gratitude for the care and thought that went into this room.

“This isn’t over,” I mutter, more to myself than to Cherry.

She chuckles, her wings fluttering slightly. Oh, sweetie, with Acheron, it’s never over. It’s only just beginning.

I lose myself in the books, so engrossed, I don’t notice Acheron until his shadow overthrows me, his body heat suffocates me, and his deep, velvet voice croons, “Boo.”

I spin around, wishing I could stop the liquid gold butterflies in my stomach and the inner muscles contracting. “Acheron…” I breathe.

“How does my exhibit meet with your historian’s eye?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back and lowering his head toward me. “Or are you too proud to admit your approval?”

I snap.

My blood catches fire as I narrow my eyes upon him. “I might not lift a finger to anything in this room, but you’re not antique.”

I lunge for him. Hands striking. Nails scratching. Teeth gnashing and biting. I get one solid punch to his jaw, and his head snaps back before a low growl rumbles in his chest. I freeze at the daggered look in his eyes. It congeals my blood. His very mask seems to harden to steel.

“I let you have that hit, Little Quill…” he says while rubbing his jaw. “It’s all you’ll get.”

Balling my hands into fists, I attack again—only for him to grip me by the hips, lift me into his arms, then promptly dump me on the bed. I cringe, groaning from the feeling of the blankets chafing my still sore backside.

The second I try to scramble away, Acheron is there, seizing my wrists and pinning them above my head, pressing them to the headboard. That’s when I realize he fused chains to each end of the board, chains with leather cuffs. I’m still writhing and kicking when he locks my wrists in the cuffs, then gets between my knees, giving one thigh a sharp slap. I yelp and clench, struggling.

I jerk and buck, but it’s useless. Acheron is too strong. I swallow hard as he undoes his red tie, then binds it around my eyes. I snap my teeth but don’t get his skin. My world is plunged into darkness. Then, I feel something cold lock around my throat. Oh, god, no! It’s a metallic collar, and it keeps my head immobile.

All my breath withers. Now that I’m in his exhibit, will he fuck me? Will he take me now? Just like this?

Could be worse! Cherry interjects, and I envision her propped on my forehead, ruffling my hair. Some guys send flowers, and let’s admit, you hate getting flowers. This is luxury captivity. You’re practically royalty!

I’ll be sure to write a glowing Yelp review for the five-star prison.

Acheron slams his mouth down on mine. An instinctive whimper escapes my throat. At first, I try to bite him, but he commands me with the power of his jaw. I feel the muscles there, forcing me to open until he stabs his tongue inside and decorates the inside of my mouth with it.

My searing bottom combined with the kiss conspires against me. Hot liquid fills my pussy, wetting my folds and the thin fabric of the vintage lace underwear. Acheron flares his nostrils as if he can smell my arousal. My nipples bead with desire, pushing against the nightgown.

“You are mine, Everleigh Lennox,” he says above my lips, and I bite down on my lower one, relying on the sharp splinter of pain. “My art,” he clarifies. “And now, I will begin.”

“Begin what?” I whisper, holding my breath.

He pauses, rubs his lips along mine, and purrs darkly, “Creating.”