The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

21. Admit it—you’re dressing up for him

21

Admit it—you’re dressing up for him

Chapter Playlist:

“Way Down We Go” – KALEO

“Bring Me to Life” - Evanescence

EVERLEIGH

When I wake up hours later according to the vintage German cuckoo clock in the corner, I yawn, drowsy and sluggish. The last thing I remember was a needle poke. God! With how much Acheron has stabbed me, it’s a wonder the drugs haven’t damaged my system. Then again, I’ve always had a high tolerance for medication. It’s why I could hear the echo of Cherry’s voice even after the antipsychotics. Nothing could possibly silence her.

Oh, I don’t know about that, she teases, stretching her arms as she lounges on a chaise. Acheron’s cock would certainly do the trick.

Ignoring her as best I can, I wander to the adjoining bathroom and observe the beauty products. Luxury. High-end. Extremely expensive. Nothing should surprise me. And just like I didn’t refuse to eat last night, I explore. I try a serum and a masque, then turn on the shower to rinse my skin. The water scalds my body, but I don’t turn it down. The sting is grounding, a sharp contrast to the haze in my mind.

Most of the time, we women could hardly care how we look in the shower. It’s not like we turn into some sex goddesses. But with the type of environment, I take advantage. I lather myself, treat myself, inhaling the aroma of the rose oil—my favorite because he knows my favorite. I try the hair mask, which makes my dark hair feel like pure silk.

I shave my legs and….other areas.

The tension coiled deep in my muscles doesn’t ebb. Steam billows around me, thick and suffocating, but I welcome it. It makes the world feel smaller, more contained.

When I finally step out, the mirror is completely fogged over. I avoid wiping it clean, unwilling to confront my reflection. The towel I wrap around myself feels rough against my oversensitized skin even though it’s Egyptian cotton. I clutch it tightly as I make my way to the wardrobe.

The doors creak as I open them, revealing a collection that still takes my breath away. Vintage lingerie in delicate pastels, sheer dresses with intricate embroidery, silks, and satins that shimmer under the dim light. It’s the kind of wardrobe that belongs in a fantasy—or a nightmare.

I sift through the hangers, fingers brushing over lace and ribbons. Each piece feels like a question, a challenge. What will you choose, Everleigh? Who will you be tonight?

My hand pauses on a pale pink slip. It’s soft, almost innocent, with delicate floral embroidery along the hem.

Well, well, well, Cherry’s voice startles me, and I whirl around to see her perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and smirking like she owns the place. Her image always sparkles at the edges as a figment should. Look at you, getting all dressed up like a good little doll. Who’s the lucky guy? Oh, wait…

“Cherry,” I groan, clutching the slip to my chest with one hand, pinching the bridge of my nose with the other. “Do you have to do this now ?”

Of course, she’s more vivid today.

She shrugs, unrepentant. You’re the one who invites me out of your head. Especially when you need me the most. I am here at your service. She flutters her hand in a mock bow, buzzing her wings. She eyes the slip in my hands, and her grin widens. Besides, you’re practically inviting commentary. You showered, did your hair, shaved your asshole, and now you’re picking out the most INNOCENTLY SINFUL thing in that closet. If that’s not screaming, ‘Acheron, come get me,’ I don’t know what is.

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks burn. “I’m not?—”

Save it, she interrupts, waving a hand. You could’ve gone for one of the dresses, but no. You’re dressing all sexy and flirty for him, whether you admit it or not.

I glare at her, cheeks flushing even hotter. “I just wanted to feel clean. And comfortable.”

Comfortable? Cherry cackles, leaning back on her elbows. Honey, that dress is about as comfortable as a corset made of cobwebs. You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me. Admit it—you’re dressing up for him.

I huff and turn away, pretending to be fascinated by the shelves of artifacts lining the far wall. My fingers trace the edge of an ancient urn, its surface worn smooth by time. The cool ceramic is a welcome contrast to the heat in my face.

“I’m distracting myself,” I say firmly, my voice steadier than I feel. “That’s all.”

Distracting yourself from what? The fact that you’re practically vibrating with anticipation? The way your heart skips a beat every time you think about him? Or maybe it’s the fear you’re trying to ignore.

I capture a tarnished locket, flipping it open to reveal a tiny, faded portrait of a woman. A mysterious cameo.

Cherry appears beside me, leaning against the shelf with her chin resting on her hand. Her grin is wicked, but her eyes are knowing. Face it, doll. You’re getting ready for him. Every step you take tonight is one more little brick in the road leading straight to Acheron’s bed. And you want it. You can’t lie to me—I’m you, remember?

I snap the locket shut My hands tremble as I place it back on the shelf. “I’m not ready,” I whisper.

Oh, sweetie, Cherry coos, her tone dripping with false sympathy. No one’s ever really ready for a man like that. He’s your every dark fantasy come to life. But here’s the thing—you’re not running, are you? Showered, shaved, and slipping into THAT little number? You’re practically putting up a neon sign that says, ‘Come and get me.’”

I glare at her. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I mutter, turning back to the artifacts. “You’re just my dark side trying to help me cope with all this, with the fact that I’m going to be…”

I don’t say the word because it’s too black, too much of a denial. Because assault, rape is different. Rapists don’t care how you feel. You’re just a faceless hole to fill or a prize to be used, abused, and discarded like trash when they finish you.

Rationality tells me to get a grip. He stalked me, preyed on me, hung a man out of jealousy for me. He injected me with a tracker, abducted me, and trapped me in the most gilded prison I could ever dream of. He made me confess the most personal thing I’ve ever disclosed to anyone. Not even my psychiatrist knew the extent of my relationship with Cherry.

Acheron wants me for life. He wants to shape me. He commands me with his kiss, invades my heart, and brings my darkest desires to life. He devours me with his power, vowing to hurt me in the deepest ways, forcing pleasure on me.

He has the obsession, possession, and sadism to break me down until I belong to him. He won’t stop until he’s claimed my heart and soul. Tonight, he’ll begin with my body. Skin, flesh, and bone.

Waves of flushed desire, heated lust wash over me.

Rationality tells me he can still do all of that and violate me at the same time.

Violate, yes. Rape, no, Cherry points out, and I swear I can feel her stroking my hair. There’s a difference—at least to us. Like one step down from — oooh, look! Chocolates!

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the heart-shaped arrangement of truffles. Cherry skips, her wings flapping as she begs me to try one.

Instead, I focus on the objects on the nearby shelves, which I will soon catalog. A rusted dagger with an ornate hilt. A cracked porcelain doll with glass eyes. A faded map with edges curling like old parchment.

A sound from the hallway makes me freeze. Soft, deliberate footsteps, growing closer.

My breath catches, and the air feels suddenly heavier, charged with an energy that prickles along my skin.

Cherry grins, her form flickering like a dying lightbulb. Showtime, doll , she whispers, her voice echoing in my mind as she fades into the shadows.

I’m not a doll. Not to him.

I turn toward the door, heart pounding, as the footsteps stop just outside. The handle turns slowly, and I brace myself, every nerve on edge.

The door creaks open, and Acheron steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. A storm who worships me with his eyes.