The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

42. “Dance for me, Little Quill…” I command her

42

“Dance for me, Little Quill…” I command her

Chapter Playlist:

“Far From Home” – Five Finger Death Punch

CALLUM

ONE MONTH LATER

Tonight will be the most spectacular performance of all.

So spectacular, I may never host another.

I will never prepare her.

My boots echo faintly on the polished stone floor as I make my way to Everleigh’s workspace, a tray balanced in my hands with two cups of coffee and a plate of fresh croissants, bacon, eggs, and fruit.

I spot her before she notices me. She’s seated at her writing desk, the faint glow of a desk lamp illuminating her hair like a halo. She’s bent over a stack of documents, her quill brushing absently against her lower lip as she concentrates.

She’s reading a collection of old letters, their ink faded and handwriting slanted, telling the story of a forgotten love affair between two historical figures. A special collection I procured for her. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been more determined to please her, keeping her busy with various projects.

Ever since the incident in the crypt, she’s been on her best behavior. I’ll never forget how she responded to the first time I let her feel the sun on her face. I wouldn’t allow her outside, but I did bring her to the solarium and then, the greenhouse. One of my favorite sights is the sunlight filtering through the glass and turning her dark hair into a cascade of glossy midnight while casting a silvery glow on her skin. And how she touched the flowers, rare orchids, becoming one with the beauty of her surroundings.

While I spent the next hour sketching her, I need no paint or brushes to create art in Everleigh. She is the art, and I am her only creator.

Turning my attention to her, I can’t resist. Setting the tray down quietly, I step behind her, combing my fingers through her hair. She startles, then softens beautifully.

“Cal,” she breathes, her voice a mix of annoyance and relief. “You scared me.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” I murmur against her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You looked too focused. Thought I’d remind you to eat…before I have my own historian-shaped meal.”

She tilts her head slightly, letting me nuzzle into her neck. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, but there’s a smile in her voice. Fucking love when that happens. Fucking love when she is happy…or at the least, content, receptive.

I glance down at the desk. “I’m pleased you enjoy the letters.”

She sighs with a smile, turning to me. “Thank you, by the way, for the artifact you left me. It’s incredible.”

I stiffen. My arms tighten around her, and I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. “Wh+at artifact?”

Her brow furrows. “The brooch.” She gestures to the item on the upper edge of the desk. A gold brooch encrusted with diamonds and emeralds. “It was on my desk when I woke up earlier this morning. I thought you left it for me.”

My blood runs cold. The brooch isn’t mine. I haven’t acquired anything new in weeks, and nothing gets into this exhibit without my knowledge.

The security system is programmed to recognize my scars , to open only for me.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

Someone’s been here. Someone managed to bypass my security, to leave something for her. My mind races with rage and fear.

I step back, pacing now. “No one should be able to get in here,” I growl. “The system reads my scars. It’s impossible?—”

“Cal,” she interrupts, standing and touching my arm. “You’re scaring me. For real now.”

I stop, my chest heaving. I cup her face, my thumb brushing over her cheek. “Don’t be. Do you think I would ever allow anyone to touch you? You are mine, Everleigh Lennox. Only fucking mine. I’ll find out who did this. No one will ever threaten you here. No one will breathe the same air as you. Not while my heart beats.”

Her eyes search mine, wide and uncertain, but she nods. “Okay.”

I kiss her, fiercely, as if I can protect her with the strength of my embrace. But even as I hold her, my mind is already working, calculating.

Whoever did this made a mistake. And I will find them.

Once I’ve departed, I set to work checking and rechecking all the security feeds. I interrogate members of my security, ensuring every last one is above reproach.

Since the last exhibit, I’ve gained more VIP clients. Regardless, they have limited access. No access to the speakers. No ability to open the fucking doors. All they are afforded is a one-way view after my personal escort.

Most importantly, they are monitored. I don’t leave them alone with that one-way screen for long. I ensure I perform hourly checks, and the security feed is always broadcast to my office.

Bloody fucking hell. How could this happen?

I rub a hand down my face as I scrutinize the VIPs through my screen while doing a more in-depth background check.

The portly man of the crime syndicate recently became a VIP despite my Russian Roulette act on his privates. My jaw tightens because Jonathan Rippers doesn’t have the wherewithal, much less the style to do something like this.

Whoever the invader was, he could have simply taken her or…raped her. No, it’s not his end goal.

I turn the brooch over in my hand. The craftsmanship is impeccable, the kind of piece that

whispers wealth and intent. This isn’t a crude gesture; it’s a challenge.

And I know exactly who would dare.

Dorian.

The name curls in my mind like smoke, suffocating and acrid. It fits too perfectly. The style, the arrogance, the audacity to waltz into my domain and leave a token for her .

But no. It’s impossible.

I shove the thought aside, my teeth grinding. Dorian’s on tour, playing the charming bastard in New York City, parading around as if he owns the world. He’s been there for the past week, clear across the country, touring with his act. Every move of his is public, plastered across social media and gossip columns.

And yet, this reeks of him.

If it’s not Dorian, then it’s someone who wants me to think it’s him. Someone who knows enough about us—about her —to mimic his style.

A low growl escapes my throat. Whoever this is, they’re trying to woo her. Impress her. Seduce her.

My Everleigh.

Fury crashes through me. Some interloper thinks they can charm her with a trinket?

This isn’t about her, not really. It’s about me. About tearing down the walls I’ve built, the control I’ve fought to maintain.

Fine. Let them try.

I slam the brooch down, push away from my desk, and stalk toward the monitors. Every feed, every angle, every shadow—I scour them for anything I might have missed. But there’s nothing.

My fists clench at my sides. I’ll find them. I’ll rip their intestines from their bodies and use them to strangle their dicks until they fall off.

But first, it’s time for the next exhibit.