Page 9 of Ruthless Desire

"I don't know, pumpkin. But I think you should go. This could be a huge opportunity for you, a chance to make some important connections."

I waver, torn between excitement and trepidation. But in the end, my ambition wins out over my unease. This is what I have been working towards all these years, the chance to break into the upper echelons of the art world. I can't pass it up, no matter how mysterious the circumstances.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "Okay, I'll go. But I don't have anything to wear, let alone a gown fancy enough for the fucking Met Ball of the art scene."

As if on cue, the doorbell rings, making us both jump. Dad goes to answer it, returning a moment later with a large black box, an elaborate red bow perched on top like a pustule about to burst.

"It's for you," he says, his voice oddly strained. "I guess your secret admirer thought of everything."

With trembling fingers, I lift the lid, revealing a dress of such dark magnificence it steals the breath from my lungs. Yards of inky silk spill over my hands, the fabric so soft it feels like a lover's caress. It is a gown fit for a queen...or a sacrifice.

But then I hear a sound, a faint rustling coming from the kitchen. I pull away, my brow furrowed in confusion.

"Is someone else here?" I ask, my voice suddenly tight with apprehension.

My dad's face clouds over, a shadow passing behind his eyes. "It's nothing, just the neighbor dropping off some mail."

But I'm not convinced. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, a primal warning that something isn't right.

I stand up, the book clutched tight to my chest like a shield. "I should probably get going," I say, my voice wavering with a fear I can't quite name. "It's getting late, and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

My dad stands up too, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Of course, of course. Let me walk you out."

We make our way to the front door, my heart pounding a staccato beat against my ribcage. Just as I step over the threshold, I catch a glimpse of movement in the hallway mirror.

It's a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his features obscured by the shadows. He's walking away, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor.

I whirl around, my eyes wide with fear and confusion. "Dad, who was that? What's going on?"

But my dad just shakes his head, his face a mask of sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry, Natalie. I'm so sorry, you should be on your way."

And then he pushes me out the door, the lock clicking into place with a sound like a gunshot.

I stand there on the porch, my mind reeling with questions and accusations. What has my dad gotten himself into? Who was the mysterious man in the hallway?

With the book clutched to my chest, the only solid thing in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.

Chapter 4 Dante

The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering tapestry of vice and ambition. From my perch high above the fray, I feel like a god, a conductor orchestrating the sordid symphony of human weakness. The power is intoxicating, a drug I'll never tire of. But even as I revel in my lofty domain, my thoughts are consumed by her.

Natalie Quinn. My dark obsession, the missing piece to my twisted puzzle.

I stare at the live feed playing across the array of screens before me, my eyes devouring her every move. The way she worries that plump lower lip as she paints, the graceful arc of her throat as she throws back another shot of whiskey.

Even in these stolen, unguarded moments, she takes my breath away. A dark angel, oozing raw sensuality and tortured genius.

Thanks to my extensive surveillance, I know her world inside and out. The seedy bars she frequents, the rusted fire escape she perches on to smoke her weed. The ramshackle studio where she pours her blackened soul onto the canvas, bleeding out her demons in shades of crimson and onyx.

But it's the personal details that really make my heart race, the intimate pieces of the puzzle I've carefully assembled. Her favorite flowers -black dahlias, a bit on the nose but delightfully morbid.

The constellation of scars on her thigh, souvenirs from dear old mum's "loving" discipline. The way she touches herself when she's drunk and lonely, tears streaming down her face as she chases the specter of true passion, true connection.

As if she'll find anything sweeter than the oblivion I'll give her. The blissful annihilation of self, of memory. I'll consume her body and broken soul. Mold her into something new, something glorious and terrible to behold. My magnum opus made flesh.

A shuddering exhale escapes my lips, my cock hardening painfully against the inseam of my trousers. I palm myself through the fabric, relishing the sweet ache of denial.

Not yet. Our grand consummation is fast approaching, but I'm nothing if not a master of delayed gratification.

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