The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

44. I am his truth. His art. The art of obsession

44

I am his truth. His art. The art of obsession

Chapter Playlist:

“My Body is a Cage” – Arcade Fire

“The Beautiful People” – Marilyn Manson

“Mad World” – Tears for Fears

“Gasoline” - Halsey

EVERLEIGH

The spotlight blinds me until there’s nothing but me, the stage, and the silence of dozens of eyes. I can’t see them, but I feel them—an oppressive weight. Their figures are silhouetted beyond this stage.

It’s the first time I’ve been outside the exhibit without Cal showing me a tour of his estate or fucking me in the fish tank bathhouse.

“Dance for me, Little Quill,” he commands.

My body obeys his every whim, contorting into shapes I never imagined it could. A flicker of rage burns in my chest. I’m a puppet, and he’s the one pulling the strings. An inescapable puppeteer. He’s always there, controlling, commanding, creating.

But damn him, he’s good at it.

The strings lift me into the air, transforming me into something strange and ethereal. The hooks hurt, but the pain fades to the adrenaline rush, the endorphins spiraling through me. The reinforced skin holds, and the ribbons spiraling around me make me look like some kind of macabre angel.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored panels around the stage, I feel… awe. I’ve never looked like this before. Unreachable. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

Holy hell, Everleigh, Cherry’s voice echoes in my mind. You look like a damn goddess up there. A creepy, haunted one, but still. Props.

The audience is silent, their attention suffocating. My breath comes shallow and quick as Acheron guides me higher, my feet leaving the ground entirely. The ribbons cascade around me like ghostly tendrils.

I’m floating. Softly flying.

I hate him for this. I hate him for making me feel… seen.

But I can’t deny the artistry. The control.

Think about it this way , Cherry quips again. If you fall, at least you’ll look fabulous doing it.”

The rage simmers beneath the surface, a quiet rebellion I can’t act on. Not now. Not when he’s holding me like this, showing the world what he sees when he looks at me.

You’re like a macabre Barbie doll, Cherry croons, appearing in my side vision, my ever-helpful delusion. Or some twisted Christmas ornament. All you need now is some haunted nightmare house…or a creepy, little tree.

Even as his puppet, I’m something more. I should feel humiliated. Degraded.

But instead, I feel…powerful.

The hooks pull the base of my neck, bringing my head into a graceful bow.

I am weightless in his hands, a marionette brought to life.

He is careful, always careful. My pain is an art, his art…dangerous but not reckless.

He brings me back to the stage again. the strings go slack, but the haunting melody swells, leaving me breathless, confused.

I feel him, his presence, the scent of his dark, masculine musk drifting around me before he even touches me.

“Dance with me, Little Quill,” he commands.

Like a god of shadow and light, his presence magnetic and overwhelming, he sweeps me into a dance.

His hand presses firmly against the small of my back, just beneath the corset piercings, the other gripping mine as he leads me into the motion. The ribbons flutter with each step, catching the light like living flames. My body moves in perfect harmony with his, even as I fight the urge to resist.

The audience gasps as he twirls me, the ribbons trailing behind like threads of a spider’s web. The rhythm is intoxicating, his control absolute. He pulls me closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “For me.”

The rage simmers, but it’s drowned out by the raw energy between us. Each step is a battle, each spin a surrender.

Acheron leads me into a series of intricate twirls, guiding me as if I’m an extension of his own body. He spins me with a grace that feels mystical.

As the dance reaches its climax, he guides me into a final pose. My arms stretch upward, the ribbons like long, scarlet scars. He claims one side of my face and brings his lips to mine as a cascade of blood-red paint showers down upon us, splattering across our bodies and the stage in a macabre imitation of rain. He kisses me, capturing me with the crimson droplets streaking down my skin, painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of chaos and surrender.

The music ends, but the kiss doesn’t. The applause thunders.

For now, I let the sensations wash over me, the spotlight still burning on my skin. I’ll let them see me. Let them admire me. Because I am Acheron’s puppet. His and his alone.

My heart pounds with something dark and profound. Obsession. I belong to the God of Art. Utterly and irrevocably. Our connection is much like the strings, but ours are invisible, metaphysical. And they bind us together stronger than ever.

The applause fades.

I hate how I throb. He’s like some demon of hell needling under my skin and spreading heat into my blood. He’s infectious. And I’m drinking his poison. Sexual tension vibrates in the air between us.

My throat dries. Tears form in my eyes as I gaze at the crimson glint in his eyes, knowing he’s about to fuck me again. My bitterness and resistance disappear. No matter how much I resent him, I can’t…can’t fight him. His power crushes me, his energy sizzles my blood.

In a moment, I’m in his arms with his steel cock buried inside me, impaled on his shaft. My breasts bounce against his chest, the pierced nipples rubbing his skin. I moan from the action. Gooseflesh sprouts all over my skin.

The silhouetted figures in the background dissolve. It’s only me and…Acheron. It’s wishful thinking to believe he’s Cal in these moments. But he only unveils himself when we are alone. Whenever he wears the mask, he’s Acheron. It’s a shield. He’s a stranger to everyone else but not me. He lets me see him in ways no one else has.

He’s let you take off his mask, Evie. Cherry softly kisses my cheek on my side. That’s practically a marriage proposal and you know it. Girl, you’ve won.

And yet, I wonder how much he hides, how much of him he keeps locked away, even from me.

His eyes—those deep, black eyes—hold a certain darkness. It’s like he’s torn when between Cal and Acheron, bound to his dark hunger, his desires, and his control. And I can’t decide which part of him I’m drawn to more.

All I know is I’m the only one who knows the truth.

And it terrifies me, in the most intoxicating way.

The rope appears, a thick, coiled thing that unfurls like a serpent, twisting and curling Acheron’s hand moves through the air with a practiced grace, and the rope obeys, lifting him—lifting us—off the ground.

I lurch, gasping, my body already trembling from the slow, relentless rhythm he’s set inside me. We are flying, dancing in midair—and he’s still softly thrusting inside me. Sweet, fucking god!

The rope twirls around us, tightening, lifting us higher. It’s as if we’re weightless, floating, suspended in the air by his will alone. Like the laws of gravity bow to him. A fever engulfs my body. I forget who I am. I forget everything but the way he moves within me and how the rope twirls us in a perfect choreography.

His hands grip me, steadying me as the rope dances us through the air, wrapping us tighter, pulling us closer. I can feel every taut muscle. I can’t tell if I’m more afraid of the height or how he’s making me feel.

Liquid fire spills through my blood and kindles all my nerve endings. I clench all around him. Between the adrenaline, my mind whirling from the aerial dance, and the pinching sensation of the hooks, it’s unfathomable that I haven’t orgasmed yet.

I know why. He’s brainwashed me, conditioned me to respond to his commands. I realize it then. I can’t…can’t…can’t climax without his voice.

He doesn’t stop thrusting and fucking me even as we rise higher, even as the rope twirls us through the air like a marionette and her master. The rhythm deepens, intensifies.

His body presses into mine, rubbing against my breasts, the erect nipples. I’m unraveling. Every shift and glide is like a layer of color, each touch adding depth, texture, and meaning to the canvas of our bodies.

I grow wetter, dripping, gushing all over him.

Mid twirl, he lowers his head to mine and captures my lips in a burning kiss, tongue probing, exploring, fucking my mouth. I slowly die inside…and come alive at the same time.

Acheron fucks me harder, his cock tunneling harder, hips slamming as he hammers into me. The heat in my blood punishes me. Searing pressure builds in my pussy.

He pulls me closer, one strong hand at the base of my spine, his knuckles brushing the lower ribbons of the corset. God, I’m drowning in him, consumed by him. Watching his performance on a screen can’t compare to the nirvana of performing with him. No— being with him. Because this is not a show. I don’t know where I begin and he ends.

I am his truth. His art. The art of obsession.

I’m astounded by his strength when he weaves his right leg around my body, holding me to him by those muscles alone…while his hand at the base of my spine lowers to rub my swollen clit. He spears me harder as the music builds, and the aerial dance spins us faster and faster.

It’s a sickening thrill. Dark and disturbed.

As the crescendo strikes in a clash of cymbals, Acheron crushes his mouth to mine, fiercely swipes the swollen bud, and hilts deep into me, his whole body shuddering with his impending release. He growls, “Come for me, Everleigh.”

At the same time that he lowers us to the stage floor, I come, throwing my head back. The ribbons tug at my skin with the euphoria roaring through me. I convulse, erupting, exploding all around Acheron as he unleashes himself into me while bringing us back to earth…even as I’m soaring to heaven.

After a few moments of our heavy breaths coupling, feeding on each other, Acheron rubs his lips along my brow, then ejects himself before turning his attention to my body.

The hooks come out one by one, his hands steady, his movements reverent. When the last thread falls away, he lifts me into my arms.

The thundering applause of our audience fades into nothingness. They can watch—they will watch—but this moment belongs to us alone.

On the stage, beneath the chandeliers and the fractured light, he sets me before him, positions his cock, coated in my arousal, against my anus, and claims me again. I rake my nails against the stage floor. Tears fill my eyes as I see those dim, dark figures…until he flips me around, not content without seeing me shatter before him.

His lips cover my breast, pulling my pierced nipple into his mouth. He fucks my ass hard, causing my whole body to shift and thrust to his will. He rearranges my insides, increasing the pressure until my pussy muscles clench around nothing…until he stabs three fingers inside me, wondrously working my G-spot.

“That’s my dirty girl,” he purrs darkly while thrusting harder in my ass, his fingers rubbing against my slippery folds. “Come for me again, Everleigh. Only for me.” He licks my nipple, circling his tongue around the erect bud.

I clench my eyes shut and clamp down around his fingers. The world rips away. A thousand heartbeats thunder through my system. Like shimmery splatters of paint, ribbons of hot, liquid color surge waves of pure bliss inside me.

Once Acheron has found his release, shooting his cum inside me, he carries me beyond the stage. He says nothing. He just brings me to the bathhouse, surrounded by the fish tanks. He turns into Cal again, fucking me slow and strong inside the water until we become one so deep, it feels like our skin, our very souls are fused.