Page 24 of Stalker's Toy

When I reach for camisole straps, his burned palm cages my wrist—ropy scar tissue glowing pearl-pink in the spotlight.

"Slowly." His thumbnail grazes the vaccination scar on my upper arm. "The unveiling deserves ceremony."

Fabric pools around my ankles—black silk and velvet dissolving into shadow.

October rain streaks the skylight above us, distorting the amber lights into wavering funeral pyres.

I cross arms over breasts gone pebbled with gooseflesh.

"For whom do you perform modesty?" His chuckle vibrates against my spine. "The ghosts? The gods?”

Air evacuates my lungs.

Twelve prescription bottles rattle in medicine cabinet memory.

His grip tightens, steering me toward the armchair's blood-red upholstery.

"Sit."

Palette knife scraping against glass jars punctuates his command. "Left knee drawn up. Right leg...here." Cold fingers splay my thigh wide. "Let me see where your darkness pools."

Charcoal residue embeds beneath his nails as he adjusts my limbs like a taxidermist posing roadkill.

I focus on the canvas behind him where phoenix-winged figures spiral into a vortex of Prussian blue.

“I thought you wanted me here to clean,” I point out, unsure why he’s even gotten this far with me in the first place.

Henrik smirks. “I told you it was cleaning, but in reality it’s this. I told you that you’re going to be my muse for my next collection, so you’ll be at my disposal, for whatever I want.”

"You've done this before." It's not a question.

Vermilion blooms on his palette like a fresh arterial spray. “And you haven’t? What are they teaching you out there anyway?”

"Life drawing electives." The chair's carved arm digs into my tailbone. "Though professors frown on full-frontal submissions."

Bristles scritch across linen. "Academic cowards. The body is merely newsprint wrapping for the soul's black box." His eyes rake over me—clinical yet starving. "What's your desire? What do you want to focus on? Where does your dark heart take you, Miss Cohen?"

"Charcoal. Graphite sometimes." I swallow copper-toned fear. "Ash, when I can get it."

His brush freezes mid-stroke.

Behind him, a clock ticks seconds stolen from terminal patients. "You burn your own?"

"Only what deserves immolation."

The resulting smile could etch glass.

He mixes crimson and bone black into fleshy pink. "Tell me about the scars."

Rain hammers the skylight.

Fifteen flames dance in each ceiling bulb.

My throat seals itself around lies.

"Domestic accident."

"Ah." Brush tip stabs the palette. "Those tend to leave cleaner lines. These..." He nods at my cheek's silvery rivulets. "...speak of frantic clawing through molten obstacles."

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