4. I am the artist of her every dream and nightmare
4
I am the artist of her every dream and nightmare
Chapter Playlist:
“Cat and Mouse” – Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
“Bad Moon Rising” – Mourning Ritual Cover
“Hide and Seek” - Nightcore
ACHERON
She is the ink in my veins, the stroke in my hand.
She doesn’t recognize me. Not surprising, but it is quite endearing. And it makes me all the more determined to possess her. A blank canvas on one hand and suppressed trauma on the other.
I will squeeze every drop of trauma from her heart and soul and use it like new paint…spreading it across the pages of her life, layer by layer until she is mine in every shade and shadow.
With her lovely neck arched and exposed to me, Everleigh narrows her eyes, suspicion flickering in their depths. She’s trying so hard to mask her fear, her doubt, but I see it all.
“What does “play” mean?” she asks, her lower lip quivering.
I smile behind my mask and declare, “I’m going to give you a twelve-minute head start.” I lower my gloved fingers to the dark waves draped across her arm, the back of my hand nudging the lower swell of her plump breast. I have no qualms of invading her space and letting the weight of my presence press against her. She will learn to accept my mastering her, staking my claim to whatever I desire.
When her brows lift at my mention, I raise a finger and wag it, deflating her hopes. “You won’t escape the manor. That’s impossible. But there is one room—just one—that can be locked. If you find it and lock yourself inside, I will take my leave. I’ll disappear, like a specter into the night.”
Her lips part, the question forming before she even realizes it. “And what if I don’t find it?”
I can’t help my grin beneath my mask. I know the way my eyes glint when I’m amused—it’s deliberate, laser-tinted pupils from a world-class eye surgeon. A weapon I wield as easily as any blade. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Pain and pleasure, Everleigh Lennox.
Her pleasure is my palette, her emotions like a harmony of colors.
Her pain is my pigment. The raw substance that forms the palette—like an intense foundation. And I will rouse the depth of that substance regardless of the effect.
If she breaks, she breaks. Art is meant to break. If it does not ignite the heart and awaken the soul, one must break his art to create the exquisite beauty of heaven from the torment of hell.
I take her hand, relishing how she stiffens at my touch. Her skin is warm, her pulse quickening. I lead her to the kitchen, her resistance humming through her tense fingers.
If her spirit could be captured, it would be expressionism—bold form and colors to express those passionate emotions distorted from reality, reflecting inner turmoil and defiance. And suppressed but unbridled desire.
Inside the kitchen, I pull the blindfold from my pocket and step behind her. She flinches, and I bite back a chuckle.
“What is this?” she demands sharply.
“Merely an entertaining precaution,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath stirs the hairs near her ear. “The chemical I gave you is nearly at its peak, and I wouldn’t want you to ruin the surprise.”
She stiffens further, her indignation sparking as I imagine fiery colors. “Oh, are we going to play Pin the Tail on the Asshole now?”
Fiery colors mixed with the black and royal purple of her beautiful, macabre mind. Perhaps some burgundy or blood-red there, but I will enjoy learning more.
Her defiance is intoxicating. I chuckle, low and dark, the sound rumbling between us. “You never fail to amuse me, Little Quill.”
I spin her slowly, deliberately, the blindfold in place. She mutters curses, her balance faltering as I guide her steps. When I’m satisfied, I step away, leaving her swaying slightly. She doesn’t move. Her breath heaves and cleaves, straining the lower neckline of her black shirt and giving me a tantalizing view of her upper breasts.
Hunger sharpens inside me, growing at the thought of the hunt. I want her with every sick and twisted bone in my body.
The cupboard creaks as I retrieve the hourglass. It’s a thing of beauty—rare and extravagant, unnecessary, and utterly perfect.
I return to her, pulling the blindfold free. She blinks, disoriented, and takes a hesitant step. Her knees buckle slightly, and I catch her, my hands firm on her arms. Her warm and trembling body, weak from my drugs, so very soft, sends a primal jolt through me. She’s so ethereal, her eyes bearing an untarnished purity, but I know a dark beauty with deep wounds lingers somewhere in the background. Something beyond the car crash and the loss of her fiance.
“Careful,” I murmur, steadying her. I turn her toward the nearest hallway.
Then, I step back, pulling out a chair and sweeping my cape behind me as I sit. Leaning back, I prop my boots on the table with a thud, turning the hourglass upside down with a soft thud. The glittering grains begin to fall.
“Your time starts now,” I say, my voice low, even. I tap the table an inch from the instrument.
Her eyes flick to the hourglass, and I read the thought practically blaring from her mind—she’s wondering if she can bash me over the head with it. The corner of my mouth quirks.
But then she freezes, her eyes widening as she lunges, hands trembling. “Oh. My. God. This is a De Beers! Gold-plated. Floating diamonds for the grains! These have gone at auction for fifty thousand dollars!”
I tilt my head, watching her examine it with the fascination of a magpie. “Is that so?” I say, amused by her distraction.
She turns the hourglass over in her hands, muttering about its craftsmanship, picking her way through the details. We are both lovers of art. Hers simply pertains to objects while mine is reserved for light and shadow, colors and textures—all coupled with the raw and visceral art of live presentation and performance.
I lean back further, folding my hands behind my head. “Ten minutes now, Little Quill,” I remind her.
Her head snaps up, and she sets the hourglass down, glaring at me with such feminine rage that I almost laugh. Then, with a sharp kick, she knocks my chair back, nearly sending me sprawling.
She bolts down the nearest hallway,. I laugh, dark and low, righting myself as I trace a gloved finger down the hourglass.
“Oh, she’ll pay for that later,” I murmur, my fantasies multiplying. A thrill surges through me, my blood pulsing with anticipation.
Let the game begin.
I turn on my smartwatch, summoning the holo-program. It cost me a pretty penny, but my control over her is worth it. It took me a good hour to put all the cameras in place, to record all the necessary angles. Later, I’ll replay this just as I replayed her response to all my little gifts.
She first tries the bathroom door, making a beeline for the window. Only to find it hopelessly locked, immovable. Naturally, I secured all windows and doors, forbidding any escape. And another sweet revelation she will soon learn.
Everleigh rushes to the next room, a center study with a door that leads to another bathroom. As she tries that bathroom, finding no window, she rushes back…just in time for the study door to close.
The moment she tries to open the door, finding it locked, her cheeks flush with fury. She is locked inside, not the other way around.
Eight minutes.
As soon as she grabs the nearest lamp, intending to use it on the doorknob, I lower my mouth to my smartwatch. “Simply say ‘please’, and I will open the door, Little Quill.”
She startles at my voice issuing through the speakers, her hands pausing, still clutching the lamp. “That’s cheating!”
“So is that.”
She presses her lips into a tight seam, but I read the defeat in her eyes. Because she’s not about to damage her boss’s property. Setting the lamp back on the desk, she marches to the door, balling her hands into dainty fists. “Please,” she spits out.
“Good girl.” I unlock the door.
Seven minutes.
She turns a corner and finds herself in the sun room, one wall of glass windows featuring a view of the mass of woods. One door that leads to the terrace. As soon as she steps inside, she grabs a pillow from the love seat and uses it to hold the door open. Good, she’s learning. Flexibility and resourcefulness are necessities in my world.
I almost expected her to try the terrace door, but no. She remembers my explicit instructions. No escaping the house.
Six minutes.
The next room she comes to is the wine cellar. I stiffen, clenching my gloved hand into a fist, bringing it to my chin, and observing. Her pale hand touches the knob. She slowly twists it and opens it a crack?—
—then hurriedly shuts it before moving down the hallway to the stairs. Hmm…I stroke my chin, intrigued. Why not there? Blood rushes to my cock because, aside from art, there is nothing I love more than an enigma. And Everleigh Lennox is both.
She reaches the top of the stairs.
Five minutes.
She tries multiple bedrooms. All to no avail. Her panic sets in as she heaves rushed breath, jerking at window frames, pounding on the reinforced glass.
I ease out of the chair, tugging at my waistcoat. Shudders assault her small frame.
One minute.
I pause at the staircase, gripping the railing.
When she hurries to the steps, her eyes like terrified prey, knowing her time is depleting, I turn off the program. Instead of retreating down the hall, trying more doors she already has, Everleigh hurries down the steps, passing me in a fluster.
Forty seconds.
I stalk her, tracking her movements. No escape in the library, Little Quill. I anticipated her going there first. So, I would not have made it so simple.
She’s a vision with her wild dark hair teasing the curves of her round hips.
Thirty seconds.
No escape in the downstairs guest room.
Ten seconds.
The fear in her eyes pulses into me, summoning a predatory need to feed on that fear. Cut her, mark her, bleed her. And see what comes out. Her blood will make a delirious palette when the time comes. But I’m too obsessive to lose control.
She jerks open the door closer to the stairs…and freezes.
Five seconds.
Everleigh faces the closet as the time winds down. Her shoulders curl as I draw closer, but she doesn’t burst inside and try the door. She doesn’t plunge beyond the coats and huddle into a little ball, hoping for safety in the darkness.
Her breathing is shallow, and I can see the rise and fall of her chest. She knows I’m right behind her. She can feel me here, a shadow at her back, the weight of my presence pressing into her like a second skin. “Time’s up, Everleigh.”
Instead of bolting, she turns.
Tears glisten in her eyes, and the blood has drained from her face, leaving her pale and trembling. Yet her gray eyes burn, like molten silver catching fire, not with a mere will to survive but with a passion to live. A passion I will coax, twist, and pull until it’s a thread I can weave into my design.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower. Her lips press together, trembling, but her gaze holds mine like a challenge. And a subtle lift of her chin.
Perfect.
The masterpiece isn’t the canvas, the pigment, or the colors—it’s the alchemy of what they become together. And she, my Little Quill, is about to become the most exquisite transformation of all.
Because I am not her hero. I am not even her villain.
I am the artist of her every dream and nightmare.
I am her creator.