The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

50. I’d say that takes the grand prize for crazy, unhinged stalkers

50

I’d say that takes the grand prize for crazy, unhinged stalkers

Chapter Playlist:

“I’m Gonna Show You Crazy” – Bebe Rexha

“You Should See Me in a Crown” – Billie Eilish

“Kings and Queens” – Ava Max

EVERLEIGH

The new exhibit is quiet, save for the faint hum of the estate’s heating system.

Pacing the floor, I sigh and look up at the moonlight filtering through the high, arched windows, casting silvery shadows over the central bed where Cal lies. It’s a cathedral of art and devotion, built around his still form.

He’s been breathing on his own for two days now. Cherry says from my right. She’s sprawled out in the chair I set up for her, flexing her wings. Goes in and out like a bad wifi connection. Maybe we should kick him; that usually works for stubborn machinery.

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. If my sponge bath this morning didn’t wake him up, I doubt kicking him would do the trick.

Valid point, especially with what you did AFTER the sponge bath. She doubles over, in stitches from my little prank that’s a Hail Mary in many ways. By the way, I’m proud of you, babe. The exhibit looks gorg.

I smile, glancing at the intricate tapestries, the carefully curated art pieces, the shelves of vintage books, even a Renaissance-era sculpture. All the ones Cal had in storage or transit from weeks ago. The space hums with his essence, as though everything carries his heartbeat.

Evie, you practically built a little Louvre around him. She leans over and nudges me with her elbow. I think you were hoping the sound of construction would be his alarm clock.

She’s not wrong. Because well, I’m not wrong. Too bad it didn’t work. After his surgery, Cal was unconscious for five weeks. I have a small baby bump now.

And a shit ton of morning sickness.

Cherry grins, her teeth gleaming in the dim light. When you threatened Cal’s estate manager after he hesitated, I swear I thought he was going to wet his pants.

I laugh. Oh, it wasn’t a threat.

The memory surfaces, sharp and vivid.

His estate manager had stood there, wringing his hands, stammering excuses about how he needed Acheron’s command to transfer the exhibit. I leaned in close enough to see the sweat beading on his brow and reminded him, very calmly, that I had stabbed Acheron. Twice. The God of Art himself.

And if I could do that to the father of my child, what did he think I’d be willing to do to someone who refused to obey Acheron’s Goddess who wished to honor his legacy?

“I’m carrying his child,” I’d added with an icy glare. “What do you think Acheron will do when he wakes up and learns you denied the mother of his child the simple request to restore what he worked so hard to create?”

The manager had gone pale, muttering assurances before practically sprinting out of the room.

Cherry snickers, breaking me from the memory. You really know how to put the fear of God into people, don’t you? The God of Art, of course.

I sit beside her, resting my hand on the edge of Cal’s bed. The exhibit is perfect. A tribute. A promise. “I couldn’t just leave it the way it was,” I say quietly. “It’s a part of him. A part of us. But… I couldn’t leave it underground either. It had to be something different.”

Cherry raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. A whole new wing, huh? Overachiever much?

I can’t help but grin. “You know I don’t do things halfway. Besides…” I shrug, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Cherry’s gaze softens as she looks toward Cal. It did. But it didn’t wake him up. Maybe you need to install a gong in here. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”

He does look beautiful.

One of the first things I did after Cal was stabilized was find the room where he kept all his masks.

The room was overwhelming at first, a vault of identities, each mask like a sacred relic, dark and haunting. And every last one had the bloody tears.

After he shared his past, and when I saw that room, it became clear to me. He would never forget about the blood cult and the horror of losing Naomi. But I understood. When I stabbed Dorian through the heart because I was fighting for something, someone, I understood what he must have felt. And how the blood, her killer’s blood, meant so much to him — how it meant justice. And punishment.

Leaning over, I touch one side of his mask, brushing my fingertips along those bloody drops.

For the past five weeks, while he’s laid unconscious, I’ve visited his ‘Mask Room’ every day. I carefully swap them out every day, hoping the right mask might coax him out of unconsciousness.

By now, I’ve gone through every mask. It’s my silent way of keeping him connected, of reminding him who he is. Or maybe it’s just for me, a ritual to keep me from falling apart.

Cherry flutters her wings. Aww, that’s why you have me, sweetie pea. Remember how we thought of the best one? That cheap party store mask you brought in? The one where you drew clown makeup on it? Little hearts and everything? Priceless.

I can’t help but laugh, though I keep it quiet. He needed a little humor. Besides, it was only for a day.

Yeah, but that day was glorious, Cherry says, grinning and rising to circle his bed . I almost wish he’d woken up just to see his face—or, you know, his MASK—when he realized you’d turned him into a sad clown.

I roll my eyes but smile at the memory. It wasn’t sad. It was whimsical.

Sure, babe. Cherry winks and vibrates her wings. Whimsical. Nothing says ‘artistic genius’ like dollar-store plastic and Sharpie hearts.

A wave of nausea overwhelms me, cutting off my breathy laughs. But I breathe through it this time. Not too intense. I focus on Cal, wondering if our child will have his dark eyes—minus the crimson glints—or my gray ones. Or somewhere in between. I miss those glints. And how deeply he would look at me even through his masks.

I glance back at him, the weight of the last few days pressing on me. He looks almost peaceful.

Go on and kick him already.

I size up my figment, noticing her tight-fitting black leather mini dress. I roll my eyes. You’d probably be more helpful if you didn’t stand there looking like you just stepped out of a BDSM fashion magazine.

Hey, I’m here to provide emotional support, Cherry says with a mock salute. And by emotional support, I mean making sure you don’t lose your mind from all the ‘he’ll wake up any minute now’ drama.

Yeah, that involves her giving me all sorts of twisted, kinky fantasies, which she claims as “inspiration” for Cal when he wakes up.

And look who’s talking, Missy. She pokes a finger at me. You’re wearing nothing but sheer white lingerie under that black silk robe. You want to impress him just as much. Admit it.

I roll my eyes, but my gaze flickers back to the man in the bed. He’s no less devastating. His face is still a masterpiece sculpted by gods. A brutal beauty incarnate with sharp angles, cliff-high cheekbones, and sensual, full lips. If only he’d open his eyes…strip me bare like he always does with one powerful look of sheer devotion. He could weaponize his dark eyes in an instant, a blade meant to pierce and conquer.

In some ways, I resent his serene face. He doesn’t look like the man who shot himself in the shoulder like an idiot. An idiot who was so hellbent on his obsession. So obsessed with me, he wasn’t just willing to die for me. Or kill for me. He was willing to kill himself for me.

I’d say that takes the grand prize for crazy, unhinged stalkers.

She’s not wrong.

I sigh, my hand brushing against the side of the bed.

“Do you think he’ll wake up and immediately start complaining?” I murmur absentmindedly.

Oh, absolutely, she says with a wicked grin. He’ll probably act like he’s been in a coma for ten years and demand a parade in his honor.

I wish the humor helped, but the tension in my chest doesn’t let up. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

Sure hope you’re ready for his reaction when he figures out “you know what”. She makes air quotes and flaps her wings, tossing her curls onto her shoulder.

I fight back the laughter pulsing through my chest while drumming my fingers lightly against the edge of the bed. My heart skips a beat at the thought of him waking, and I’m almost certain he’ll want to punish me. But he deserves it. And it’s worth it. “I think he’ll notice pretty quickly.”

Cherry tilts her head playfully. Just call it poetic justice. Cruel justice, woman. Just cruel. Oh, she knows she loved the idea even more than I did.

I shift my weight, finally sitting on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing Cal’s hand. He’s still warm, still alive. And somehow, that’s all that matters right now. “Let’s just hope he wakes up soon.” The room is quiet again, save for his rhythmic breathing. I lean forward, my heart racing, and whisper, “Please wake up, Cal. I can’t do this alone.”

When it doesn’t work, I say to hell with it. And I kick him. I kick him hard…in the same side where he had surgery.

A deep groan has me nearly diving out of my chair.

“Cal?” I touch his chest, leaning closer. “Cal, wake up, please wake up.”

He groans again, but his eyes flutter open, a muscle bouncing in his jaw. “I’d say you interrupted a beautiful dream, Little Quill,” he mutters, those dark eyes, those impossible, all- consuming dark eyes locking me in their gaze, “but you just made it come true.”