Page 25 of Stalker's Toy

Sweat glues dark curls to my temples. "You've mistaken me for one of your broken dolls."

"Have I?" Knife scrapes through ultramarine. "Then why do you tremble not from cold?"

The observation detonates beneath my sternum.

Every childhood nightmare coalesces in the pigment-streaked hollows beneath his eyes.

He steps back, head cocked like a raven eyeing roadkill.

"Adjust the angle." Razorblades hide in his baritone. "Let gravity assist."

My heart hammers in my chest as I try to makesense of this.

Why am I here?

Why did I let him talk me into ‘cleaning’ his gallery if he’s just going to stare at me while I’m butt ass naked?

Henrik’s brush whispers across the canvas like a lover’s confession, each stroke dissecting my nakedness into planes of ochre and umber.

I don’t even know how much time has passed, but I can tell it’s been a while.

My thighs ache from maintaining the pose—knees splayed wide, spine arched to present what he called ‘the cathedral of your ruin’ not too many minutes ago.

“Breathe through your abdomen,” he murmurs, not looking up from his palette.

Prussian blue bleeds into Payne’s grey beneath his knife. “Your scars are paling.”

A draft licks between my legs.

I focus on the blister forming beneath my right scapula where leather upholstery bites flesh. “They always do when I’m cold.”

His chuckle rasps like match-strike. “Liar.”

The accusation coils in my pelvis.

Silver chains dig into my wrists where I grip the chair arms, remnants of gothic armor discarded on cement floors.

Two hours since he paid me to become still life.

Two hours watching those surgeon’s hands translate my traumas into wet brilliance.

Through the skylight, halogen stars replace real ones, London’s light pollution smothering constellations I used to trace from burning windows.

He steps back abruptly, head tilted.

Canvas reflects in his irises—a ghostly inversion of my sprawled form rendered in bruise tones. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Brushes clatter into a jar of murky solvent.

My legs cramp as I uncoil, blood rushing back to numb extremities.

Henrik strips off his paint-smeared smock, revealing forearms mapped with shiny scar tissue.

Our shared language of damage hums between us.

“Next week. That’s when I want you back here.”

My response lodges itself in my throat, refusing to escape as I gawk at him. “This isn’t a trial run?”

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