The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

19. “Strip, Everleigh Lennox.”

19

“Strip, Everleigh Lennox.”

Chapter Playlist:

“Inside Out” – Emmy Rossum

“Dead Inside” - Muse

EVERLEIGH

I stare down at the patterns, the faint remnants of wax and heat still ghosting over my skin. It’s beautiful. Infuriatingly, undeniably beautiful. Like some ancient script I can’t quite read but feel deep in my bones. It’s not just art; it’s a declaration. A story. My story, twisted with his.

I hate that I can’t stop touching it or marveling at how something so painful could leave something so breathtaking behind.

Why me? Why choose my body, my skin, my pain?

I bite my lip, refusing to meet his gaze, but the weight of his question lingers between us. For research, he said. Nothing about this is clinical, detached—he poured himself into everything

Finally, I take a shaky breath and whisper, “It felt… like a claim.” My voice wavers, but I push through. “Not just on my body, but on everything—my thoughts, my fears, my desires. Like you were branding yourself into me, and I couldn’t stop you. I didn’t want to stop you.”

I glance up, meeting his dark, unrelenting gaze. “It wasn’t just pain, Acheron. You knew exactly how far to push, how much I could take. And somehow, you made it beautiful. You made me beautiful.” I swallow hard as his black gaze deepens on me. “But it also scared me. Because if you can do that with wax and fire, I don’t even want to imagine what else you’re capable of.”

There’s a beat of silence before I finish quietly, “And the worst part? I’m not sure I’d stop you, even if I could.”

He kisses me. A searing kiss that is every inch a kiss of gratitude….and approval. A moment where we exist in the eye of a perfect storm. He conquers me with his mouth, with his tongue, but I don’t kiss him back. Because it would be the first true crack where I will belong to him.

Who am I kidding? I already belong to him.

Yep. You’re already his. Might as well enjoy the perks of ownership , Cherry tells me.

I hate how my nipples respond to him, how warmth floods my pussy. All this time, he’s kept his finger on the verge of my opening. I’m one inch from him grinding against him.

You’re dying to kiss him back. Just admit it and give us both what we want. This is the stuff dark romance dreams are made of! Cherry folds her hands in a desperate plea. She’s so strong, I see her out of the corner of my eye, begging me to kiss him back.

Instead, I put up my wall. I rebel. And use all my strength to pull my face to the side.

“What now, Acheron?”

I see the smirk crooking beyond the mask. “Now…I feed you.”

I roll my eyes with a disbelieving huff before reaching for the wine.

I should have known suppertime would be like this.

Acheron tightens his hold on me, and my breath hitches at the feeling of his rock-hard length prodding my backside. No other chair. If I want to eat, he insisted I sit on his lap…and eat from his hand.

Of course, he wouldn’t let me wear anything but the lingerie and the wax.

Sometimes, I find myself tracing the wax lacework. But much has begun to dry and fleck. It leaves behind reddened lines.

“How did you do all of this?” I finally ask, gesturing to the room before he slowly, tenderly offers me an oyster from a half-shell.

Wincing at first, I take a deep breath and part my lips, accepting the aphrodisiac and swallowing. I taste the aftermath of the salt and oil, sighing in appreciation. It reminds me of the oysters I tried along the French Quarter in New Orleans when my boss commissioned me for an abandoned chateau in the bayou.

Oh, god. My boss! How could I have forgotten?

Before I can ask, Acheron nuzzles his nose along my cheek. “I spared no expense. As you mentioned before, I am very well-connected. And I wished you to be comfortable, more than comfortable. I wished for you to be enamored .”

Mission accomplished! Cherry and I say in tandem. It happens sometimes.

I won’t let my defiance keep me from eating. It’s such a cliche to refuse to eat or throw the food in my tormentor’s face.

Oh sure, deny your feelings, but don’t deny yourself that third dark chocolate-covered strawberry. Priorities, babe.

I facepalm her.

She huffs, blowing a raspberry. Rude much?

I sample strawberry bruschetta with basil, followed by the salmon pesto pasta.

You’re chewing like you’re trying to drown out the sound of your feelings. Spoiler alert: it’s not working.

Ugh. I shove her into a closet in my mind with her laughing the whole time.

“Acheron…I was supposed to be on my next assignment…” I lower my chin, regret washing over me.

He clears his throat and then produces a holographic image, a subtle ringing. He’s calling my boss?!

Tilting his head, Acheron opens his teeth on my jaw and coos, “Make it sound good, Little Quill. Or there will be consequences. I know you don’t wish the payments to your parents’ living accommodations to end.”

My heart clenches, but I barely get a chance to stiffen before the familiar voice says, “Hello, Elliot Carlysle here.”

“Um…hi, Elliot. It’s Everleigh.”

“Everleigh!” he exclaims, so loud, I have to clap one hand over my ears. “My dear, how could you not tell me?”

“Tell you?” I flick my eyes to Acheron’s, noting the amused glint in those tinted pupils.

“The internationally renowned artist, Acheron himself, privately commissioned you for a series of historical artifacts he intends for auction. He’s also pledged to donate a significant amount to the Smithsonian.” He lilts enthusiastically. “I am so proud of you, Everleigh. And he could not have chosen a more suitable historian. While I will miss having you for the next six months, I’m certain your time will be worth its weight in gold! I look forward to your progress…and what finds you will research and catalog. So proud, Evie. So proud…”

I can’t deny the rush of warmth in my chest at Elliot’s words. I manage to nod my gratitude, assuring him I will connect soon. But once the call is done, two words are all I can think about. Six months. Six months trapped here.

Swallowing the hard knot and remembering his other words, I turn to eye Acheron and ask, “Is it true? Will I actually be cataloging things? Researching?”

He cups my chin, rubs his lips against mine, strengthening the warm flutter inside me. “Of course, Little Quill. I would not dream of imprisoning you here without something to do. Your curiosity was already heightened. I will seduce that curiosity more.”

My nerve endings thrill at such a project. Normally, I know what I’m going into. I have a site in advance. But Acheron…he’s astonished me. The thought of poring through those antique books and researching every other item in this room…it tantalizes me.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve spent an exorbitant amount of time in one location.

Once Acheron lowers his fingers from my chin, I help myself to the dark chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. My cheeks grow hotter, and I swear he can smell my pheromones.

“Tell me, again for research purposes, what do you look forward to cataloging most?”

I contemplate his question while helping myself to the stuffed lobster. “Probably the writing desk and then all the books.”

“If you were unaware, I left a plume quill on the desk for your convenience.”

God, I hate how gravelly his voice is. “I did, thank you.”

“What was that?”

Shit. I reach for the red wine and take another few sips before setting the glass down, turning to him, and narrowing my eyes. “You heard.”

“Are you finished, Everleigh?” He motions to the food selections, and I nod.

He rises and sweeps me into his arms, stealing my breath. “What are you?—”

I freeze, not saying anything when Acheron opens the one glass door on the east side of the exhibit. He carries me down a short hallway, his mask on me the whole time. He pauses before a door with a gold handle. One brief twist, and he kicks the door open.

The sight sends my heart soaring.

The room is a masterpiece. The walls are glass, but not just glass. It’s an aquarium alive with vibrant tropical fish darting through makeshift coral reefs, their colors shimmering in the dim, aquatic light. Larger, more ominous shapes glide through the depths—sleek, predatory sharks, their presence commanding and mesmerizing. The entire space feels like being suspended in the ocean, surrounded by life and danger.

At the center of the room, carved into the floor, is a massive bath, its edges smooth and polished like obsidian. Black rose petals scatter the surface. Water ripples reflect the glow of the tank and cast gentle, wavering patterns across the ceiling. Steam rises, curling into the cool air, inviting and luxurious.

I can’t stop staring. This isn’t just a bathroom; it’s an escape, a sanctuary, a piece of another world.

Acheron sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my arms as he steps back to watch my reaction. “I had this room specially commissioned for you. In my world, there is grace, there is allure. And you are at the center of it all.”

I gaze at the surroundings, following the school of fish that darts away from a prowling shark. This isn’t just a room. It’s a statement. A reflection of the emotions he stirs in me—beauty, danger, and the undeniable pull to dive deeper.

Acheron escorts me to the edge and turns me to him. “Strip, Everleigh Lennox.”

I’m paralyzed beneath his hardened gaze. But my hands move of their own accord. I try to rationalize it, that it’s my desire to wash the wax from my skin, but I lower the lace bra straps down my shoulders and unhook the back, spilling my breasts before him. It doesn’t take much to shimmy out of the still-wet panties.

I’ll never shrink in front of him. No matter how much I want to cover myself, I force my chest out, lifting my breasts with their beaded tips—too much like an offering. I’m not ready when he cups them. I hiss, clenching my eyes as he thumbs my nipples, kindling all my senses. Before I can lose myself, I step back, swing around, and step into the water.

A dark chuckle resounds behind me. And I turn in just enough time for Acheron to begin stripping.

Breath caught in my throat, I watch as the God of Art slowly undresses. His movements are deliberate, controlled, every inch of him commanding attention. His clothes fall away, piece by piece. Each motion is calculated, like a ritual, and my eyes follow every line of his body, every shift of muscle beneath his skin.

He doesn’t rush, and neither do I. I lower my eyes to his chest, mesmerized by the tattoos. Blood droplets, intricately inked, mirror the designs on his masks. Like his dark history of bloodshed, they’re scattered across his chest and down his sides. But they are not the most impressive.

Faint silver lines, raised, show the scarification in his skin. They outnumber the tattoos by a multitude. Acheron carved his artistry into his very flesh!

My pulse quickens. The tattoos, the scars are danger and mystery—as much a part of him as his mask.

He doesn’t remove his boxers, but his cock is tenting, hanging like a narrow log against his lower thigh. He’s a shower. Not a grower. And he has the sort of length that could split me open. Literally since I’ve…

It’s not a dirty word, Evie, Cherry breaks in, and I purse my lips, nodding in my mind.

Does it even matter?

Oh, trust me, it matters for men like Acheron.

I don’t want him to look at me like that, I deny, my voice sharpening.

He won’t, Evie. He’s been looking at you like you’re the sun, and he orbits around you since the second you woke up with his finger in you. It won’t change.

Regardless, I don’t betray anything. I force myself to breathe, to focus, but the air thickens with each movement he makes. The way he stands, poised and confident, makes me feel small and yet strangely empowered. He’s not just revealing his body—he’s showing me something deeper, something raw and intimate.

No resistance. Once he’s in the bath with me, Acheron hauls me into his arms and sits me on his lap, back to his chest. “The water has oils in it. And as I wash you, Little Quill, you will tell me about your penchant for dissociation .”