The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

35. “She’s not for you, Dorian. Not now. Not ever.”

35

“She’s not for you, Dorian. Not now. Not ever.”

Chapter Playlist:

“Like a Villain” – Bad Omens

“Isn’t Everyone?” – HEALTH it sharpened me. It made my art deeper, darker, and more resonant, while his became hollow echoes of what they used to be.

Steam curls between us, veiling his sharp features like a predator cloaked in mist. Beautiful bloody bastard. His high, sharp cheekbones catch the dim light, making his angular features seem elven but darker and grittier.

I lean back against the tiled wall, letting the heat seep into my muscles, but my mind is anything but relaxed. “If not more enticing,” I reply smoothly.

Dorian chuckles knowingly. “You’ve set quite the standard. It would be a shame to disappoint.”

His forest-green eyes gleam, a stark contrast to the ink sprawling across his skin.

I trace the edge of a faint scar on my wrist, a habit I’ve never managed to shake. My tattoos do not eclipse my scars. No, my first carvings, my original art could never be upstaged. The ink on my skin only accentuates them.

Dorian tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been quiet lately. Plotting something big, I assume?”

“Always,” I say evenly, sharpening my tone just enough to warn him off prying further.

“Big enough to top your last performance?” he presses, his voice smooth, but he’s hunting for cracks.

This is Dorian’s subtle flirtation. Cat and mouse. No, more like clever cat to cunning cat.

Dorian’s smirk deepens as his gaze flicks to my shoulder. He gestures lazily toward the faint scar there, the one Everleigh left when she stabbed me. “Ah, now this is art. I see you’ve already begun to chronicle it. Ink to immortalize the pain—how very you, Acheron.”

Breathing in the steam, I fondly remember Everleigh’s glazed expression when I tattooed the outline of her mark before her very eyes—then fucked her with the handle of the live tattoo gun vibrating against her pretty clit.

Cracking my neck to one side, I offer a faint smile, more a baring of teeth than anything genuine. “Every mark tells a story, doesn’t it?”

His eyes narrow as they drift to my other shoulder. His finger lifts, tracing the air in a mocking gesture toward the fresh scar—a bullet wound. “But this one… this one’s new. A souvenir from one of your little escapades?”

My body tenses, tense heat prickling my skin. “Not every story needs telling,” I say, my tone flat, final.

Dorian chuckles, the sound low and sharp. “Fair enough. Some scars speak loudest in silence.”

I let the hiss of steam fill the silence. The past week has been a labyrinth of dead ends and frustration. The informant who promised me a lead on the hitmen’s employer didn’t make our meeting. A freak car accident, they said. But I’ve lived too long in this world of shadows to believe in coincidence.

Ever since the intruder’s failed attempt and the incident with the hitmen, I’ve become more cautious in screening my clients, even Dorian. No room for error—no cameras, no hidden tech. I bring in specialized radar to sweep for anything that could compromise the integrity of the exhibit, ensuring there’s no risk of being filmed or betrayed.

Their recent whereabouts, associates—everything has been checked for any connection to the car crash. Dorian, of course, was performing that night, too, capitalizing on the opening left by my canceled tour, a calculated move I can’t help but respect, even as it leaves me wary.

If anything, it strengthens our partnership with me granting him a higher pedestal. He is using his newfound wealth to express his gratitude with these VIP passes.

Dorian leans forward slightly, his body language casual, but his eyes are calculating. I know he’s fishing for information.

The exhibit. My lips curve faintly at the thought. Tonight’s centerpiece will be unlike anything I’ve ever unveiled. A guest of honor, stripped bare in every sense, her vulnerability laid out for the world to see. And her authenticity as the levels of her pain and pleasure are tested unlike ever.

“And my VIP pass?” Dorian tests me. “Does it come with a simple introduction this time?”

I straighten, my eyes locking on his, narrowing. “No,” I say grimly. “No talking. No touching.”

His smirk widens, as though amused by my adamance. “Still the consummate protector, I see.”

I incline my head, my tone taking on a diplomatic edge. “Allowing such a thing would compromise the exhibit. She must not feel she’s performing. Knowing nothing of her audience is essential.”

Dorian tilts his head. “Fear is a powerful motivator, then?”

“Precisely,” I answer solemnly. “Her vulnerability is necessary. When she is stripped to her soul, the exhibit reaches its full potential. When she understands that I alone may possess her, protect her—it’s the only way to guarantee the level of authenticity required for success.”

Dorian grins like a crafty fox. “You’ve always had a taste for the theatrical, Acheron. I imagine tonight’s exhibit will be no exception.”

I don’t respond immediately. Dorian thrives on reaction, on the subtle flinch of discomfort or the crack of uncertainty. I give him neither.

Instead, I rise, the heat rolling off my skin like smoke from a fire. Dorian’s gaze follows the movement, eyes deepening as though dissecting my next move.

“Tonight,” I say, my voice low but firm, “you’ll see something you’ve never seen before. A masterpiece that goes beyond anything either of us has attempted.”

He tilts his head, the predator’s curiosity piqued. “Looking forward to it, Acheron. And her .”

I pause at the door, glancing back at him. The steam curls around us, thick and oppressive, but I lock eyes with him and warn, “She’s not for you, Dorian. Not now. Not ever.”

His laughter follows me as I step out of the steam room, sharp and knowing, like the echo of a challenge accepted.

CAL

Everleigh is still asleep when I lift her by her hips and impale her on my cock.

Her sharp gasp and wide eyes greet me a second later.

“Oh, god, Cal!” she cries out, giving me life at the same time with her pussy feeding on my dick, clenching all around it. Always so fucking tight.

“Take it, Little Quill. Fucking need you,” I murmur against her ear, breathing in her hair. The heart I carved into her skin peeks from beyond the sheer silk chemise, silvery and puckered.

“It’s happening tonight, isn’t it?” she asks, breathless, tilting her head and offering me her neck.

“Don’t concern yourself.”

“Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Gripping her chin, pulling her gaze back to me, I narrow my eyes on her and warn, “Cause I fucking need you. As you. Nothing less. Nothing more. Everleigh “Little Quill” Lennox. Just as you are.”

Dropping her chin, I lift her up and bring her down hard on me, spearing her deep and capturing her mouth to consume her scream. She opens for me, moaning into my mouth and squeezing her inner muscles around my length.

I take her hair, fisting it around my hand and jerking her head back to give me her neck once more. After scraping my teeth along her neck, I lick along the curve of her throat until I arrive at the mark. She hisses as I kiss it, tracing my lips across it.

“Can I see the sun after tonight?” she whimpers, igniting my blood.

“The stars,” I murmur against the mark.

“The sun.”

“Stars and the moon. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

After a pause with me thrusting hard into her, I lock eyes with her. “Are you going to try to escape?”

She rolls her eyes. Naughty girl. “Depends.”

“On…?”

“On how beautiful the moon and stars are. And your mansion.”

I smirk. “How do you know I have a mansion?”

She winces as I lift her, knowing how I’m about to—slam her back down on my cock. Fuck, she’s wet. Creaming my dick.

Digging her nails into my biceps, Everleigh deadpans with me. “Someone like you isn’t going to hole up in a shack with a high-tech, highly-secure exhibit like this underground.”

“Clever girl.”

“Give me a hint.”

I tip her onto her back, seize her wrists, and thrust hard and deep enough for her to moan. Smiling to one side, I rub my lips across her brow and say, “Gothic.”

“Revival?”

Leaning in, I purr along her ear, “Neo.”

“Ungh, I’ll forgive you. But talk dirty to me, Cal!”

Fuck, I love this girl. “Blending Gothic with modern elements.”

She clenches tighter around me, the strong historian responding to my information.

“Pointed arches. Spires. Long as my cock.”

“Oh!”

She lifts her hips, arching her back, responding more. Sliding her chemise strap down her shoulder, I lower my mouth to her breast and capture her nipple, suckling and circling my tongue around the bud before murmuring, “Big as a small castle.” I flick the erect nipple.

“Fuck, Cal!”

“I incorporate green elements,” I say, scraping the taut flesh. “I include solar panels and rainwater collection systems for sustainable energy use.” Jerking out to my crown, I slam back into her to my hips, savoring her shriek. “Vaulted ceilings, Little Quill.”

“Cal, oh, oh, yes!” Her inner muscles flutter.

“Arched windows. Stained glass, dredged from a medieval-era monastery.”

“Yes!” She comes, her upper half lifting off the bed as she cries out in rapture, convulsing all around me. I jerk, snap, and bury myself to the hilt, unleashing everything into her.

Then, I fall upon her, breathing heavily against her neck as she squeezes, milking my cock. Coiling my hand around her neck, I yank her mouth to mine before she can protest. She doesn’t fight me.

“Cal?”

“Hmm…”

“I’m ovulating, aren’t I?”

“Mmm…yes, you are.”

Her breath catches, and she stiffens. I tilt my chin up to read her expressions, finding her wide eyes, but they are lost. She looks right through me, and I recognize her internal battle, how she’s undoubtedly talking to herself, to Cherry. I smile warmly when she flicks her eyes to the side, knowing she’s looking at the figment of her imagination.

“What did she say, Everleigh?” I brush strands of her dark hair away from her eyes.

Training her silvery gray eyes on mine, she blinks, then confesses, “Cherry says ‘If I get pregnant, do I get to name the baby Gothic Revival?’”

I chuff a laugh but cup her cheek as she flushes. “When our daughter is born, you may name her whatever you wish, Little Quill.”

She threads her brows. “How do you kn?—”

“Because I said so,” I harden my voice.

It must be a girl. It must be a daughter who will be the imprint of her beautiful mother and not carry the weight of the majority of my genes. For Naomi. I don’t give a damn if I’m projecting. It will be a girl like Everleigh. All that is good and pure and authentic. Our daughter will redeem me—even if I’m not seeking redemption. It’s a fool’s errand. Wishful thinking. But I will still wish.