The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

36. Now we’re starring in some kind of BDSM revenge opera

36

Now we’re starring in some kind of BDSM revenge opera

Chapter Playlist:

“Blood” – My Chemical Romance

“Blood Sport” – Sleep Token

“Total Eclipse of the Heart” – Exit Eden Cover

“I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” – Dark – Tommee Profitt

EVERLEIGH

I wake slowly, my head heavy and spinning. A fog-like haze clouds my thoughts. My body is sluggish, but something pulling tight against my skin forces my attention back to reality.

Ropes.

And pressure in my ass—ugh another butt plug.

I’m suspended in a hogtied position, my arms and legs bound in an intricate, beautiful pattern that presses into my skin like a second, unyielding layer. My wrists and ankles are pulled together behind me, the tension keeping me arched, my chest thrust forward. A gag stretches across my mouth, soft but firm.

Acheron.

I blink hard, clearing the haze enough to see him standing before me. He’s wearing a new mask as haunting as the last—glossy black with surreal droplets of blood cascading from the eyes, and encrusted rubies glinting in the low light. He tilts his head, brushing his knuckles down my cheek, and I shiver.

Yes, he is Acheron now. He’s only Cal when we’re alone.

“Good morning, my little masterpiece,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and rich, like velvet wrapping around my frayed nerves.

He’s wearing a new suit with a cape as usual. But this one has gold embroidery, intricate threadwork along the vest and jacket.

I try to squirm, to test the ropes, but they hold me fast and tight. The position is humiliating, yet I can’t ignore the strange pull of curiosity—and arousal—that stirs deep inside me.

Movement from beyond Acheron turns my blood cold. The clients are here. A crowd stands just outside the exhibit, watching me. Their eyes rake over my body, greedy and shameless, but one pair stands out.

While the rest drink in my exposed skin, this man’s dark green eyes stay locked on mine. They’re dark, predatory, and possessive—so much like Acheron’s, it makes my stomach flip. He doesn’t look at me like I’m an object to be admired. He looks at me like I’m prey. Like a challenge to my God of Art captor.

Don’t worry. That elven god can’t hold a candle to Acheron.

“Tonight’s exhibit will be quite unlike the last,” Acheron announces, his voice carrying over the room. “I promise you’ll find it… unforgettable.”

My heart pounds as he steps closer, his gloved hand sliding down my arm. I don’t know what he’s planning, but the anticipation is electric.

What is he going to do to me?

Cherry snarks, Probably something mortifying, but hey, at least you look hot while it happens.

I almost roll my eyes.

Acheron steps back, pulling out his smartwatch. He taps it, and with a soft mechanical hum, the partition wall behind me begins to lower. He grips my bound form and spins me to face the wall, my body swinging in the air.

The sight that greets me drains all the blood from my face.

Sitting in a chair, bound with handcuffs and gagged, is a face I hoped I’d never see again—my former professor. The man who assaulted me.

I can’t breathe.

Acheron leans close, his lips brushing against my ear. “Do you like my addition to the exhibit, Little Quill?”

The room spins, not from the drugs this time, but from the overwhelming flood of emotions. Fear. Rage. Satisfaction. And beneath it all, a dark, undeniable thrill.

What the hell have you done, Acheron?

Now we’re starring in some kind of BDSM revenge opera, Cherry croons next to me, her delusion clearer than ever. Is it weird that part of me wants to cheer? Like, yay, justice, but also boo, trauma trigger.

Sometimes, I think you’re my biggest trauma trigger, Cherry Bomb.

Such sweet words. I’m so flattered, Evie!

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Acheron standing at a small table covered by a velvet drapery and—oh, god, several surgical instruments.

Oh, this is gonna be good! Cherry claps her hands.

On the other side of the table are dozens of needles. The kind acupuncturists use.

Acheron selects surgical pliers, then advances to the room where Professor Aldridge sits, his eyes wide with horror and fear. All the clients’ eyes are trained on my captor’s movements, gleaming with eagerness.

When Acheron glides the pliers across the professor’s cheek, Aldridge flinches, trembling from head to toe.

“Gentlemen,” Acheron begins, his words a low, velvety purr demanding attention, “art can be a medium of truth. And tonight, I will demonstrate that truth can be far more painful than lies.”

He circles the professor, trailing the cold steel of the pliers along the man’s jawline. Aldridge whimpers, his eyes darting between Acheron and the eager faces of the crowd. Then, they turn to me, narrow with a fury.

Acheron seizes his jaw, gripping it hard enough to bruise. “You will take your filthy fucking eyes off my masterpiece. You are not fit to breathe her air, much less look upon her purity. Only I decide who looks upon what is mine .”

I swallow hard as Aldridge turns his eyes away in obedience. He looks at the floor instead.

“This man,” Acheron continues in a voice like venom, “is a parasite. A man who preyed upon innocence under the guise of intellect. But any predator may become prey, falling to a superior.” He stops in front of Aldridge, his head tilting ever so slightly as though admiring his handiwork. “Tonight, we strip away his facade—layer by layer, nail by nail .”

Acheron turns to the crowd, his expression unreadable behind his mask. “I promise, you’ll find this exhibit… gripping. ”

A few dark chuckles with murmurs of excitement echo, and Acheron’s attention shifts back to me. His eyes, piercing and dark, lock onto mine, sending a chill down my spine. Then he leans closer to Aldridge. “Don’t worry, Professor. This is just the beginning.”

With that, Acheron trains the pliers on Aldridge’s pinky finger…and my stomach churns as he clamps down on the nail and jerks it off in three seconds. Screams pierce the air. I choke on my own breath.

I expect Acheron to continue, but he sets the pliers down on a nearby table, turns around, and fixes his eyes on me. I hold my breath as he walks to the surgical table and picks up a needle. The realization dawns on me. The needles are not for Aldridge. They’re for me.

At first, he circles me, and I lift my brows, eyeing him as he crosses to my other side. That’s when I notice the large vase overflowing with red and black roses. Acheron approaches the vase of roses, the vibrant red petals stark against the black ones. Taking a single red rose, he plucks it from the arrangement, twisting it from the stem. My pulse quickens as he pierces the rose’s center with the acupuncture needle, threading it through like it’s silk.

He turns to me, his dark eyes gleaming with something primal, something possessive. My chest tightens with fear and fascination coursing through me.

He steps closer, and the scent of the rose mingles with his dark and heady cologne. My breath catches when he kneels, bringing the rose-tipped needle to the anatomical heart carved into my chest.

His gaze locks onto mine, and my world narrows to him. The needle pierces my skin, a sharp sting that draws a gasp muffled by the gag. My body tenses, but the needle sends a sensation blooming beneath my skin like a gentle hum in my nerves I didn’t realize were dormant.

My skin tingles. My nipples pebble.

Awe and pain ripple through me as he secures the rose in place, its petals brushing my skin like a lover’s touch.

I can barely process the beauty—the macabre and exquisite art he’s making of me—when his lips descend upon mine. His tongue pushes past the gag, claiming my mouth with a kiss of ferocity. A storm of emotions stirs within me as I taste him, dark and electric..

Then, as suddenly as he came, his mouth retreats, his departure leaving me breathless. He returns to the other room, where Aldridge’s muffled wails echo like a painful melody.

I flinch as Acheron clamps the pliers onto another fingernail. The sickening crunch and Aldridge’s agonized cries reverberate through the air. My stomach twists, but I can’t look away.

I’d say Acheron nailed it, Cherry giggles, her wings shimmering like rubies. I guess Aldy boy won’t be scratching those itches in hell.

Acheron repeats the process, retrieving another rose, another needle. Each time, he pierces my skin with the same reverence, decorating me in a gothic bouquet. He hypnotizes me, paralyzes me. Everything about him is the master creating a masterpiece.

Time blurs, marked only by the shift in songs that play softly in the background. Blood Sport by Sleep Token sets the stage, its haunting melody threading through the room. Then Total Eclipse of the Heart follows, an ironic counterpoint.

With each rose he places, the line between pain and pleasure fades. Heat thrashes through my blood, flushing my skin. And I’ve never been so warm and wet down there. Especially with the pressure of the plug in my ass.

I blush more at the awareness that my arousal has dripped onto the floor.

I’m caught in the push and pull of sensations: the sharpness of the needle, the softness of the rose, the heat spreading through me, and the ache of vulnerability.

Acheron’s focus never wavers, his hands steady, his expression a mask of dark intent. But as I steal glances at him, I see something deeper—a twisted form of devotion.

And through it all, Aldridge’s screams grow hoarse, his resistance breaking down with each fingernail lost.

When Acheron finally steps back to admire his work, his gaze meets mine, and I feel it again—that predatory hunger, that all-consuming possession.

And I wonder, not for the first time, if I am his victim, his muse, or something far more dangerous.