Page 7 of Stained Protector

Which one will have her staying by my side like a good girl? Willingness means I have to keep up the deception, and fear is such an enticing weapon.

“Oh,” she whispers, choked. “You’re…”

The pseudonym I use for my work is spoken like a cursed secret. It sweetens my depraved desires, a gluttonous wish to have my name etched onto her tongue. Over and over again, like an echoing chamber where she’ll lose track of how many times she begs for a glimpse of sunlight.

Huh, I ponder briefly.It contradicts what I thought before.

Another challenging decision to make. Have her feelings come naturally or break her to form grotesquely maddened love?

“I’m a big fan,” she mumbles shyly as she eyes the open sketchbook of my latest work.

What I put on public platforms and what is purchased by anonymous clients are different. It comes with the territory when clients request custom work of iniquity; I don’t judge when money is in my accounts.

Not tapping into a well-paying niche is stupidity at its finest.

“I’m glad,” I say to draw her attention, curling my hand into a fist as her pink tongue wets her bottom lip. “A fan as my assistant who will treat me and my work with respect is a pleasure to have.”

She nods strongly, the force nearly popping off her head as she grins with pride. I never let anyone near my work, legal or illegal, and I deserve to test out this special pretty baby.

After all, my frigid heart chose her.

If she fails the test—truthfully, I kind of want her to—I have an ocean-side view room and engraved chains. As fun as facades can be, I get tired of wearing them.

Relationships built on lies don’t last. So, more reason to be myself. Maybe she’ll surprise me with acceptance.

Ah, I want to play this out. Sadly, life is inconsiderate of its rules.

“I promise I won’t let my feelings interfere with work.” With fire in her eyes and determination puffing up her cheeks, she beams with vivacious commitment.

I give her some easy tasks, organizing the shelves and cleaning the paint brushes from this morning.

I take a seat in the corner and simply observe while she works. There are no extreme emotions or crashing thoughts, just moments of peace that I crave.

Every day feels like drowning. Darkness weighing me down, choking under bloodlust pressure, and inducing pain in people are ceasing in effectiveness.

Searching and trying new ways to heighten the adrenaline clashes with my desire for peace. The serenity found in art and Anya suppressed much of the bloodlust, but the beginning of an itch takes shape in my fingertips.

I flip to an empty page on the sketchbook and outline her supple body. Dainty ankles straining to push in a book on the shelf as small fingers curl over the wooden frame for support, and her pinched cheeks lighten after successfully finishing the last book.

I’m twice her size. Her head comes up to my chest when I imagine her sitting on my lap and fretting at the controversial colors I put on the canvas to enrich her loveliness.

I’ll time it right to ask her to model for me with the hands-on approach. Touch has endless possibilities of intimacy and pretenses.

I don’t understand myself and how I became this person I don’t recognize. Well, emotions are unpredictable, and brain activities are complicated. There is an unfounded reason for my obsession with her, a connection of chemicals aligning or whimsical love theories, but none convinces me.

I simply like Anya… now and two years ago.

I’m fascinated. The feelings weren’t a fleeting, superficial idea. They grew in waves like a pebble dropped in water and rippled into something akin to a storming tsunami.

“Am I doing it wrong?” Her hesitant voice dominates the lulling drone in my ears.

She drops her wet hands from the brushes, leaving them in the correct position to dry. I smile at her and voice approval. Anya’s shoulders drop, magnifying the self-doubt about her basic knowledge of art.

“I’m finished,” she says and wipes her hand with a paper towel. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Sit.” I motion to the floor and press my lips together to bury the pleased smile. “You’re giving me inspiration.”

There’s incredulity in her eyes as she sits and waits quietly, but she doesn’t let them fester. Her strength in self-control compels my fingers to mimic it on paper, knowing it won’t live up to the real thing.

---