The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

46. Freedom doesn’t feel like I thought it would

46

Freedom doesn’t feel like I thought it would

Chapter Playlist:

“Hurts Like Hell” – Tommee Profitt

“I Fell in Love With the Devil” – Avril Lavigne

“My Immortal” - Evanescence

EVERLEIGH

The last thing I remember was the force of the explosion. The glass walls splintering. My horror at the wreckage of everything I’ve loved for the past five months. And then…strong arms behind me, followed by the familiar stab of pain from an injection.

My last thought before blacking out:

Don’t let it hurt the baby.

The hum of an engine stirs me from unconsciousness, its drone vibrating through my body. My eyelids flutter open, revealing the muted glow of artificial lights and a faint leather smell.

One glance around confirms I’m in a private plane.

I sit up slowly, a soft blanket slipping from my shoulders. Not one of those itchy airline blankets but a soft warm wool one. I’m still wearing Acheron’s shirt, which sends a pang through my chest.

My breath hitches at the familiar figure across from me. Elliot. Elliot Carlysle. My boss. His sharp features are etched with concern as he leans forward, putting away his smartphone.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, relieved. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was drugged,” I mutter, my throat dry. “How long was I out?”

“A couple of hours,” he replies, sitting back in his seat. “We’ve been flying for a while now, staying off the radar.”

I rub my ailing head and ask, “Elliot…what are you doing here?”

He exhales, shoulders lowering with regret. “I’m sorry, Everleigh. I should’ve done my homework on Acheron. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. Once I found out what you were going through, I couldn’t rest until I got you out.”

How did he know? I’m sure I’ll learn soon. All I know is my boss’s words should be comforting, but the ache in my chest grows until it hurts? I think about the last conversation I had with Acheron. The promises we made. How he…basically proposed .

Everything he said about confronting my trauma, about awakening my deepest desires—it was all true. And he fought for me, didn’t he? With every bone in his body.

Just like I’ve fought for my career.

He tortured for me. He pushed me to my limits. Stripping me of all I believed I was while showing me who I truly am.

But this? Freedom? It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

Why do I want to go back? Back to the exhibit, back to him? To continue my work, to uncover what other dark desires he’s hiding? Because I have Stockholm Syndrome, I dismiss rationally.

So, boss man swoops in like a knight in shining armor? Cherry huffs, appearing out of the corner of my eye in the next seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Color me unimpressed. Where’s the flair? The drama?

Why are you here? I mutter, wondering how she can be here, especially as an illusion. She feels realer than ever. But I shouldn’t feel triggered. Not now.

You can run from him, but can you run from yourself? Because that’s who he showed you, Evie. That’s why you feel this way. Trying to run from him is like running from yourself. Running from ME, Evie! Just like you’ve always tried. Even though we both know the truth.

What truth? I hold my breath, already knowing the answer deep inside me. The reason I need her, use her to push me to see the truth.

I am you. You are me. And more importantly, you are Acheron, and he is you.

“You’re safe now,” Elliot says, his tone calm but firm.

Yes, safe. Safe and simple.

The safety I believed would protect me. His words haunt me. Because true freedom gives you the ability to unleash anything you could possibly desire.

Safety is boring, Cherry makes a show of yawning. I’d trade it for a little danger and the shirtless, scarred God of Art and Nightmares any day.

“You need time to heal, Everleigh,” Elliot tells me, stretching out his hand to touch my shoulder.

Everything inside me cringes.

Ugh. He touches us like we’re fragile. Acheron never made us feel fragile.

“To be with your friends,” Elliot says, and I know he’s well-meaning, though Cherry reminds me the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I laugh softly in our consciousness, reminding her that hell is too beautiful for good intentions. It’s lovely, dark, and deep…just like Acheron, like Cal proved.

Touche.

“How are you feeling?” Elliot asks, removing his hand.

“I-I don’t know. I just…he was a part of my life for five months.” I sit up but huddle into the blanket, my soul broken, shattered, not quite whole—not quite real. “I don’t think that can just go away.”

“What you’re feeling? It’s Stockholm Syndrome. It’s perfectly normal.”

I nod, but it’s hollow. I default to rationalizing and take comfort in Elliot’s familiar face. He’s only been my boss since graduate school, relying on me for so much because I worked my goddamn hardest. Something pinches in my chest, and it’s the first time I’ve confronted my inner awareness. My parents are in a senior citizen’s home. My friends are loose at best. No fiance. No connections. I could work 24/7 for him.

You worked 24/7 for Acheron, too, Cherry reminds me. But…fuck, Evie! The things he brought you were a hundred times more meaningful. God, Evie! You restored fucking Holocaust art! You gave them back to Jewish families. Acheron showed you those videos, remember? They were crying, breaking down ?—

Shutupshutupshutup!

I bite my lip, needing a distraction. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” my boss says simply.

Safe. The word feels foreign now.

I press my hand to my stomach, my heart sinking as I think about the baby. Even if it forever ties me to Acheron, to Raidyn Callum—am I the only one who knows his true name, the man behind the mask?—I can’t imagine not keeping it.

Why do I want him to be right? A girl. A daughter? Why does every urge confirm I want her for the same reasons if not more? Elizabeth Naomi Lennox…

I see a life unfolding before me—a life I never could have imagined before him.

It’s not like I never thought about having children. I used to dream about it—with my fiancé before he died. But that world, that version of me, is gone.

Cherry’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. Safety doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t feel right. And this? This doesn’t feel right, she quips, her voice laced with faux nonchalance as she folds her wings behind her.

This is my boss, Cherry.

Y eah, and this feels like a downgrade, she replies, deadpanning. We’re safe, but we’re not whole. He’s still out there, and you know it.

I shake my head, trying to suppress a smile. She’s always finding a way to make me laugh, even when my world feels like it’s crumbling.

He will come for me. At least that is real.

No amount of humor can stop the gnawing ache in my chest. I lean back against the seat, my hand still resting protectively over my stomach, and close my eyes.

No matter where this plane is taking me, I know one thing for sure.

I’m not done fighting yet.

As I exit the plane, warm tropical air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt and hibiscus.

I blink against the sudden brightness as I step onto the private runway. The sun glints on the sleek jet, reflecting off the sprawling manor rising from the island’s lush greenery, its flamingo-pink facade like a pastel punch to my senses.

I’ve never cared for this kind of architecture—1815 Loyalist Colonialism, all symmetry and pretentious opulence. It’s impressive, but it feels like it’s trying too hard to belong in paradise.

Freedom looks like a postcard from paradisical hell , Cherry mutters. All that pink? It’s like someone’s Barbie dream house threw up.

Elliot steps beside me, buttoning his tailored suit.. “Welcome to your safe haven,” he says, gesturing toward the manor.

I stiffen. “Who owns this?”

“The man who helped me find you.” He smiles. “And rescue you.”

I follow him down the short path to the entrance, my shoes crunching against the gravel. The massive doors swing open, revealing a marble-floored foyer with sweeping staircases and a chandelier dripping with crystals.

And there he is.

I recognize him instantly—the possessive green eyes, the golden hair, the sharp cheekbones, the air of someone who knows exactly how much power he wields. Power that is second—maybe second, I shudder—I remember him from one of the last exhibits, the way he watched me, his gaze cutting through the crowd like an arrow. How his eyes flickered with a dark jealousy. I also remember how he regarded Acheron, my Cal, with disdain and contempt.

Dorian. Another world-famous stage artist but nothing like the God of Art.

My heart lurches because his eyes have an addition. The same crimson glint in the pupils as Cal’s.

My steps falter, and my stomach churns. “Elliot,” I say, my voice low, “why would you bring me here?”

Elliot hesitates, his expression tightening. “Dorian has the resources I don’t. I trust him to keep you safe. More than I could ever trust Acheron.”

The sinking feeling in my gut deepens.

Dorian steps forward, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Everleigh,” he says smoothly, his voice like velvet. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

I don’t return the sentiment. He participated. He watched me like all others did…but deeper, more intimate—in a way that sickens me.

I’d say ‘run,’ but where? Into the ocean? Maybe the sharks would be better company. Cherry’s wings shudder with her fear, my deep-seated fear . Run, Evie, run.

“How can you possibly contend with him?” I challenge, my voice sharper than I intended. “Acheron won’t stop until he finds me. He’ll come for me.”

Dorian chuckles, the sound low and infuriatingly calm. He is Acheron’s antithesis. A white suit, crimson stripes. He doesn’t wear a mask. No, he’s too pretty for that. “The first thing I did,” he says, his tone laced with amusement, “was remove the tracker.”

My heart drops. Horror rips through me, sharp and cold. The tracker was my tether to him, a promise that he could find me no matter what. And the awareness that Dorian touched me…deepens the horror.

“You what?” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t answer, just gestures to a staircase. “You’ll find your room upstairs. I suggest you take some time to rest and freshen up. There’s a wardrobe with clothes that should suit you.”

How the hell does he know what suits me? I want to accuse him. I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but my body feels leaden. Instead, I climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

The room is beautiful, all whites and blues with floral patterns and oceanic accents. The wardrobe is filled with tropical dresses, light and airy, the kind of clothes someone on vacation would wear. I pick one—a floral sundress that fits perfectly—and change, but the fabric feels wrong against my skin.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the woman staring back at me feels like a stranger.

Oh, good , Cherry sneers. Now we’re dressed like a cruise ship guest. All we need is a pina colada and a straw hat .

I tug at the hem of the dress, trying to smooth it out. It’s just clothes. I should be grateful. I’m safe. I’m free.

Safe is boring , Cherry hisses, her wings flaring. You don’t belong here. You belong in the cold, dark beauty of his world, in places that smell of ink and age and mystery. You belong with him.

I shake my head, trying to dispel her voice, but the pain in my chest won’t go away. Because it’s not in my chest. It’s in my heart.