Page 15 of The Art of Obsession
But first, there is work to be done.
What I feel for her goes beyond possession, it’s addiction, it’s obsession. It eats at the very essence of my sick soul. For too many years, I’ve kept that sickness at a comfortable level, channeling it into my work, into business dealings to grow my empire and all the taboo explorations of the underground lifestyle. But I’ve mastered everything too quickly from high-stakes poker to BDSM clubs. Some of my black market dealings and the strategic hits I arranged took the edge off for a while…
Nothing like her.
The moment Everleigh Lennox swept into my universe, my hunger erupted with every dark fantasy coming to life like showers of kaleidoscopic prisms.
I spend the morning coordinating with my business contacts. Each conversation is deliberate, my tone sharp and commanding as I arrange the finer details of the exhibit. It will double as an auction—art is always more alluring when unattainable, and my clients will clamor for the privilege of ownership. Each acquisition has been chosen with purpose.
They will not only bid on the artifacts that I’ve painstakingly procured—like the French writing desk once rumored to belong to a queen—they will bid on the privilege of watching me perform up close and personal.
But they will see Everleigh in her truth—raw, unmasked, and utterly real. She will not act. She will simplybe—ignited by me, laid bare in her truth. She will burn, shatter, and unravel for me. And then, she will rise from the ashes as I piece her back together, stitch by stitch, stroke by stroke.
My cock bulges at the thought. I flex my hands inside my gloves, the tension mounting in my spine and shoulders. I’ve spent nearly every other waking moment in the gym. It’s the only thing that takes the edge off when thoughts, memories of her rise.
By the time I conclude my last call, the day is half gone, and satisfaction thrums beneath my skin. The exhibit and my vision are coming together.
Still, my thoughts drift to my Little Quill.
Two weeks may have passed since I made contact, but she has never left my sight.
I smirk at the knowledge of how she tried to reach out for help the morning after. Her boss dismissed her, citing stress and exhaustion, and the police found nothing since I erased myself from every security angle.
The first night she returned to her apartment, I watched her search forme.
It didn’t take her long to track down the infamous artist Acheron.
Performative artists of my caliber and fame are not simply rare. None others measure up to the accolades I slaved for, fought for, fucking bled for.
The dark craving in me had sharpened when I’d watched her sitting in the chair, clad in a silk, thin-strapped nightgown. The fabric showed the faint imprint of her rosy nipples as her expression shifted from curiosity to something softer, something…reverent. She spent hours glued to the screen. She devoured every performance I’ve ever created, her gaze lingering on my masked figure.
At one point, her fingertips traced the outline of my screen form, hesitating on the mask—as if she could feel me through the glass. I’d leaned closer to the monitor as if I could feel her in return. She doesn’t know how close I am, how I see everything. But she senses it.
She didn’t crumble. That’s what fascinates me most. Even as she faltered for two weeks, she didn’t retreat from life. I’ve seen her go to the coffee shop where she scribbles furiously in her journal, her brow furrowed in concentration. I watched her visit her parents in their senior’s home she paid for. Rest assured, once she’s in my possession, their bills will be fully covered. For years.
I’ve watched her meet friends, smiling faintly as if to reassure them everything is fine. She even visited an art museum, wandering through its halls like a lost soul searching for something—or someone.
At night, she’s struggled…and I’ve savored every moment—the way she tosses and turns, haunted by nightmares. My name whispered in the dark. No matter how much she’s filled her days, she cannot erase my touch, my breath, my voice.
I’m reviewing the final shipment manifests when the notification pings across my screen. She’s leaving.
I lower my brows in scrutiny since it’s after ten o’clock at night.
My cameras show her in her bedroom, standing before the full-length mirror. A growl rises in me. Black thoughts, sinful thoughts, a predator’s need all rise. Because She’s dressed to the nines in a sleek black dress that clings to her form like a second skin.
This isn’t like her. Everleigh is a creature of coffee shops and quiet places, not the electric chaos of nightclubs.
But then I see her phone on the bed, the screen lit with messages from her friends:
Come on, Evie! It’s our only night in town! Don’t be boring!
You need this. Just let loose for once.
Peer pressure. How quaint. I watch her sigh as she places her necklace around her throat, a silver heart locket from her parents, and picks up her phone. She hurriedly punches in the message:
Running late. Be there soon.
She slips on her heels and grabs her clutch, her movements hurried.
