22. She’s Not Ready. But she knows
22
She’s Not Ready. But she knows
Chapter Playlist:
“Centuries” – Fall Out Boy
“Lovely” – Billie Eilish – Lauren Babic & Seraphim Cover
ACHERON
It’s time.
I can’t delay any longer.
When you’re working with powerful and connected clients, who pay you well, you cannot afford to make them wait too long.
Everleigh has been waiting for me. For hours, she has roamed the room, inspecting the various artifacts, occasionally writing down notes. But her fidgety body language, her anxious expressions, and how she wraps herself in a duvet as if cold…they convey everything.
Other than disrupting one truffle from the table, she’s eaten nothing. And she never stops looking at the door.
She knows. She’s not ready. But she knows.
I enter the exhibit hall—set up much like a dining theater. It hums with quiet power and wealth, every seat occupied by a man who commands his own empire. Mafia dons, billionaire art collectors, corporate titans, and political puppeteers. All here at my invitation. In my domain, they are mere spectators. They’ve paid handsomely for tonight, not just for the exhibit but for the privilege of being part of something no one else can touch. Dorian sits in the front row.
For the present, the exhibit walls are black. Eager tension thickens the room.
Gloved hands folded behind my back, I pace before the exhibit, surveying the waiting audience. As usual, I am masked and in full performance garb.
After a grand meal from a six-figure chef, my clients are presented with cigars and their drink of choice. Once the staff departs, all eyes are on me as I stand before the exhibit, a revolver now gleaming in my hand.
I tap my wrist to summon the simple command for the black walls of the exhibit to clear. Possession, carnal and violent, overcomes me at the change in the spectators from their dilated pupils to their overeager posture.
Everleigh is sitting at the writing desk, her eyes fixed on the ledger. She shed the duvet, leaving her in nothing but her slip and dark waves scattered about her arms. But her movements are robotic at best. She’s trying too hard to focus.
“Gentlemen,” I begin in a steady voice. “Tonight marks the beginning of a series that will redefine the boundaries of art. What you are about to witness is not a performance, nor a spectacle. It is art in its purest form—raw, visceral, and alive.”
No mere sport. Nor the crudeness of pornography. No cell phones or photography of any kind are permitted. Not even the darkest of BDSM clubs can give this experience. Nor would any night with a high-class call girl.
A few murmurs ripple through the room, appreciative but impatient.
After allowing the anticipation to build, I continue, “This series is titled “The Art of Obsession.” It will explore the depths of human emotion, the fragility of connection, and the beauty of surrender. It is not for the faint of heart, nor the crude of mind.”
Most nod, their expressions carefully neutral. But there’s always one.
From the middle of the table, a portly man in a tailored suit leans back in his chair, a smirk pulling at his lips. He’s a mid-level player in a crime syndicate, here only because of a favor owed. His voice cuts through the air, thick with mockery.
“Fragility of connection? Beauty of surrender?” He chuckles, swirling his wine. “Sounds like a fancy way to say we’re here to watch a woman spread her legs.”
The room stiffens. Even Dorian, seated near the far end of the table, lifts a brow, his usual smirk fading into something colder.
I lower the revolver, my grip tightening around the handle. The words echo in my head, each syllable igniting a deeper fury. Slowly, I turn to face him, my predatory gaze locking onto his.
“Stand,” I command, my voice sharp enough to cut flesh and bone.
The man hesitates, his smirk faltering.
“Now.”
He rises awkwardly, his bulk shifting uncomfortably.
I approach him, my thumb tapping the revolver barrel. “You seem to misunderstand the nature of this gathering,” I say calmly but with menace. “This is not a brothel. It is not a stag party. And she,”—I gesture toward the exhibit room, where Everleigh waits—“is not an object for your vulgar fantasies. She is the heart of this exhibit. Respect is non-negotiable.”
I stop before him, close enough to smell the expensive cologne failing to mask the sweat breaking out on his brow. With deliberate slowness, I spin the cylinder of the revolver, the metallic clicks echoing in the silence.
“Here’s how this will go,” I say, pressing the barrel of the gun against his groin, thrilling in his eyes widening. “There are six chambers. Five are empty. You have five chances to apologize.”
The man’s face drains of color. “You’re joking,” he stammers.
I smile, cold and sharp. “Am I?”
Before he can respond, I pull the trigger.
Click.
The sound reverberates through the room like a thunderclap. All flinch as his hands shoot up in surrender.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouts, his voice cracking.
“That’s one,” I say, spinning the cylinder again. “Four chances left.”
He looks around the room, eyes pleading for someone to intervene, but no one dares. Expressions waver between fear and bewildering entertainment.
“I—I’m sorry.” He trembles.
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “I don’t think I believe you.”
Click.
The man jumps, a strangled yelp escaping his throat.
“Three chances,” I say casually, finger on the trigger. “I suggest you try harder.”
“I’m sorry!” he says again, his voice rising in desperation. “I didn’t mean any disrespect! I swear!”
I press the barrel harder against his groin, leaning in close. “You think she cares about your intent? Do you think I care?”
Click.
He’s shaking now, sweat pouring down his face. “Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry! I was out of line! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
I let the silence stretch, the weight of his fear palpable. Then, with a final spin of the cylinder, I pull the trigger.
Click.
The man collapses into his chair, trembling and gasping for breath.
I lower the revolver and tuck it into my belt holster, letting my gaze sweep over the others. “Let this serve as a reminder. This exhibit is sacred. What you are about to witness is not just art—it’s life. A glimpse into the human soul. It is not entertainment. It is enlightenment. Disrespect it—or her —again, and the next chamber won’t be empty.”
The room is silent as I leave, the weight of my warning suffocating the air.
Hardening my jaw, I open the exhibit door. Everleigh scrambles out of the desk chair, nearly knocking it over.
“Acheron,” she says softly but with disbelief.
First, I lift a finger, signaling her to wait as I light the antique lanterns strategically positioned around the room. They will cast a soft, warm glow about her figure when she’s on the bed.
Even now, they illuminate her. The pale pink chemise clings to her curves like a second skin, the delicate fabric shimmering, teasingly sheer. Soft curls frame her face, making her look almost ethereal. I can’t compare her to an angel. It wouldn’t do her justice.
I take her in. “You look lovely,” I say, my voice softer now, the edge of earlier violence replaced by something tender. My gaze lingers on the faint imprint of her nipples beneath the chemise. She dressed for me.
Her cheeks flush, though she tries to hide it with a roll of her eyes. “It’s what was in the wardrobe.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
My cock throbs painfully in my pants. My fingers twitch in my gloves, aching to begin. Tonight will make or break her—it will bind us or destroy her entirely.
“It suits you.”
I step toward her, wondering if she reads the approval in my eyes.
Her eyes pinch in silent accusation, wondering where I’ve been all day. “Is this where you tell me it’s time to become part of your grand masterpiece?” she asks sharply.
“No,” I say, low and steady. “You are the masterpiece. Everything else is just the frame.”
Her breath hitches before she scoffs and turns away, brushing her fingers along the hem of the chemise. “Grand words for someone who keeps so many secrets,” she mutters.
“Secrets have their place,” I reply, stepping toward the wall. With a click of a hidden button, the room transforms with fairy lights flickering to life and painting her in hues of gold and rose. Startled, her wide eyes reflect the lights and turn to silver flames.
“What are you doing?” she wonders.
I don’t answer but merely gesture to the ceiling above the bed where the glass slides back, revealing a massive, ornate mirror framed in gold.
Her lips part as she stares upward with awe. She turns to me, traces of fear crossing her features at the not-so-subtle implication. “What are you doing?”
I don’t give her time to process. With one final click, the wall opposite us shifts. The one-way glass transforms, revealing the group of men seated in the adjacent room, their eyes fixed on us through the now two -way glass.
A strangled gasp escapes her lips, and she shrieks, stumbling back. “What—what is this?” Everleigh demands, her voice shaking as her gaze darts between me and the spectators. Damned soul that I am, I feed on her terror…and prowl toward her.
When she bolts for the wardrobe, her intention clear, I move swiftly. Before she can reach it, I sweep her into my arms, her struggles futile against my strength. “Let me go!” she cries, thrashing, her fists pounding against my chest.
I hold her tightly, my voice calm but firm. “Be still.”
She freezes, her chest heaving as she glares up at me, her eyes blazing with fury and dread. “You brought me here for them ? To be some kind of?—”
“No,” I interrupt, my tone cold as steel. I lower it to a deep purr. “Not for them. For us. They are here to witness, not to touch. To see art in its rawest, purest form. You are not an object to be ogled, Everleigh. You are the embodiment of something they’ll never have. That’s why they watch—because they cannot possess.”
Her breathing slows, but her body remains tense in my arms. Her expression wars between fear, defiance, and curiosity. Finally, she looks away, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “You’re insane,” she murmurs, but the fight in her voice is waning.
I set her down gently on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Perhaps,” I admit, stepping back. “But insanity has its purpose. Tonight, it will create something unforgettable.”
For her sake, I turn to the glass, addressing the audience beyond. “Gentlemen,” I say, my voice carrying authority. “You are about to witness art in action. Respect it—or leave.”
I glance back at her, the soft glow of the fairy lights catching the faint sheen of tears in her eyes. “Everleigh,” I say, my tone softening, “you are more than they deserve to see. But tonight, I will show them what true beauty looks like…through you.”
She doesn’t respond, her hands gripping the edge of the bed as she struggles to steady herself. But she doesn’t bolt again. And that, for now, is enough.
She looks up, those eyes of silver flames locking on me, burning through the tear-stained glassy film. “What now, Acheron?”
I close the distance between us again. This time, I lower myself until I’m just above her, marveling at how she doesn’t shrink despite the very real fear in her eyes. She is a wonder. So full of spirit and authenticity.
I rub my lips along her brow and station a hand on each side of her. My fingers twitch, the muscles longing to bleed her and carve my mark upon her until I seal myself to her soul for eternity. “Now…I cut you.”