Page 23 of Soul to Possess

I could give her everything—worship her in all the ways that count and break her in all the ways that matter. I’ve never needed to turn anyone into art unless they made me, unless they fought me when the time came. But even then... I think I'd hesitate with her.

That’s the problem. She’s different. She’s the only girl I’ve ever wanted to keep whole—well, mostly whole. I sat down at the desk I’d built with my own hands, the same hands I used to bind, brand, and bleed. My fingers itched for action, for her. I needed a plan. The storm wouldn’t last forever. When the snow melted, she’d try to run. I couldn’t let her.

She was lonely enough to marry a stranger off some ad from a newspaper. That kind of need? That was gold. I could feed that, shape it, turn it toward me. If she needed to be wanted, I’d make sure she never doubted how much I wanted her—how badly, how brutally. I wanted to possess every inch of her, to own her mind, body, and soul.

She wasn’t leaving. No, she’d stay because I’d rebuild her. Every word, every glance, every touch—I’d layer meaning into her bones until she couldn’t tell where she ended and I began. She’d flinch at my footsteps and still crawl to me. I’d destroy every lie she told herself about love and replace it with my own twisted version of devotion.

I’d make her mine in every fucking sense of the word.

A low groan tore from my throat as the pressure between my legs grew unbearable. I pushed back from the desk, unzipping my jeans with slow, deliberate fingers. My cock throbbed as I wrapped my hand around it, imagining her tied to my headboard, her wrists bound with my leather restraints, red lines kissing her skin where the leather bit into her flesh. But that wasn’t all. I imagined the glint of my blade, the sharp stingof the cut, the slow trickle of blood as I traced patterns on her skin, marking her as mine forever.

Her breath would be shallow, her eyes glassy with a mix of need, terror, and pain. The perfect storm of emotions that I craved.

“Please, Atticus,” she’d whimper, her voice a desperate plea. “Please let me go.”

But she wouldn’t mean it. And I wouldn’t listen. I’d lean down, my breath hot on her ear, and whisper, “You want this, Gennie. You want me to take you, to own you, to make you mine forever. You want the pain, the pleasure, the chaos that only I can give you.”

I’d trail kisses down her neck, biting and sucking until I marked her, claimed her as mine. My free hand would roam her body, squeezing, pinching, leaving bruises that would bloom like dark flowers on her pale skin. I’d tease her, bring her to the edge of orgasm and then pull back, making her beg for release.

“I’ll never let you go, Gennie,” I’d growl, my voice a dangerous promise. “You’re mine now. Forever. Every scar, every cut, every mark on your body will be a testament to our love, to the darkness that binds us together.”

The thought of her struggling, of her trying to fight me even as her body responded to my touch, sent a wave of pure, unadulterated need coursing through me. I wanted to break her, to mold her into the perfect partner for my dark soul. And I would. No matter what it took.

I had a plan now, a purpose. And Gennie, with her trusting eyes and innocent heart, would be the center of it all. I would make her love me, fear me, need me. And in the end, she would be mine completely, a work of art that no one could ever take away, but I’d need to go about it smart. So, she thought it was her idea.

I smeared pre-cum across my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, my breath catching on the edge of a groan. Her voice echoed in my mind, trembling and soft—please, let me go… please let me go back to Marvin.I pictured her lips quivering, body taut with resistance... until it wasn't.

Until it trembled for me. She wouldn’t know which way was up by the time I was done. I’d teach her how to unravel at my touch, how to ache for me even as her lips formed the wordno.She’d come for me, again and again, her thighs slick, her cries turning from protest into pleas—please, Master, more.That was the real her. Buried. Dormant. Waiting for someone like me to dig it out.

Thick, hot ribbons spilled across my thighs as I growled through clenched teeth. The aftermath was sharp. Hollow. I grabbed a tissue from the corner of my desk and wiped myself clean, the act more clinical than remorseful.

I had to play the long game, build trust, cloak the predator in warmth. If she didn’t have dark desires buried somewhere in that beautiful head, I’d plant them myself. I debated going inside, just to get another look at her, maybe brush her with one of those accidental touches she blushed over. But no—better to stay patient. Better toplot.If I moved too soon, I might startle her.

And I wasn’t ready to break the spell yet. The lock on her door? Decorative at best. I'd designed it that way. This house was mine, every inch of it. Built by my hands. Reinforced with precision. I’d stripped the guest room of anything that could be used against me—the windows sealed, the hinges custom. No drawer handles. No scissors. No matches. Bare bones.

Only what I wanted her to have. The rest of the house was my sanctuary. Leather straps, preserved skins, and the stretched hides of those who came before her adorned the walls—transformed by my blade, my vision, into masterpieces. Mykingdom of cruelty. My cathedral. And Gennie... she'd be the crown jewel.

I’d test her tonight. See how close I could get before she squirmed. I’d butter her up over supper, let her feel safe, warm, even seen. Then I’d strike. Not hard. Just enough to shake her cage. The black mamba. Coiled. Patient. Lethal. Until then, there was work to be done. I picked up my blade—its handle worn smooth from years of devotion—and returned to scraping the new hide on my table. Fresh. Soft. Feminine.

I smiled as I imagined Gennie kneeling at my feet, eyes wet, lips parted in confusion and need. I'd make her my naughty little princess. Slowly. Methodically. Completely. And when I broke her? It would beart.My fingers flexed around the blade. My chest rose with anticipation. Soon. She’ll be mine. And she’ll beg for it.

Chapter Twelve

I woke with my sweatshirt tangled around my arms like restraints. It twisted up under my chest, clinging to my skin with the subtle aggression of something that was supposed to comfort me—but mostly just felt suffocating. I tugged it back into place and stared at the ceiling, blinking against the dim, unfamiliar light. Great. Not even fully awake and I already felt like I was losing my mind. Again. My entire life had become a contradiction.

Safe, but not. Sheltered, but entirely exposed. And that man downstairs? That strange, magnetic, terrifying man? He wasn’t helping. There was crazy. Then there wascrazy psychotic.And I was starting to worry I’d landed in the second category—eyes wide open, heart racing, pretending I wasn’t slowly unraveling at the edges.

Everything about Atticus felt like a trap designed by someone too smart for me to outthink. Not outright violent. Not overtly cruel. But something was… wrong. Off. Wrong in a way that felt intelligent. Curated. Like walking into a beautifully decorated room and slowly realizing everything in it was made of bone.Which I had actually done.That tension had started the moment I stepped through the front door. It hadn’t left me since.

Still, I was here, wasn’t I? Breathing. Free to move around—mostly. Not locked in a basement. Not tied to a chair. So why did my gut continue to scream that something wasn’t right?

I crossed to the window and peeked outside. It was darker than I expected. The kind of thick, wintry dark that didn’t just sit over the land but pressed into it. There was no sun to find. No warmth. No glow. Just shadowed outlines of skeletal trees and a quiet that didn’t feel peaceful—it felt watchful. Ireally wished I had a phone that worked out here. My bars had been missing since I got on the bus.

I didn’t really want to call anyone. There was no one to call but Maddie, and hell she’d go even more crazy than I felt. Nah, there was just something about the glow of a screen, the way it ticked time forward in neat, manageable numbers. It would’ve been nice to know if it was five or six or maybe even later. My stomach gave a low growl, and I realized with a bit of shock that I was starving.

I glanced at the door, then back toward the stairs. Would he care if I made myself something to eat? Would it piss him off? Or maybe—just maybe—it would make me seem more useful. Like a guest. Not… whatever I actually was. If I cooked for him too, maybe it would soften something in him. Maybe it would keep me safe from whatever kind of notions he cooked up while he was out in his workshop, unease skittered across my spine. It had been dark, and true – there was a blizzard but I hadn’t seen any other buildings when I came in..

I padded down to the kitchen, quietly opening drawers and cabinets like I was searching through someone else’s memories. I tried not to look too long at anything—afraid of what I’d find. The pantry surprised me. It was full. Not just stocked, but curated. Rows of jars, tins, and bulk goods. Flour. Sugar. Dried beans. More than enough for one person. Enough for two. Enough for ten. That should’ve made me feel comforted. It didn’t. It felt… calculated. Like he’d planned for this. For someone. Forme?Forsomeone he kidnapped?

---