Page 32 of The Art of Obsession
I need her in the water before I do something I’ll regret. And I would regret it here. A hiss leaves her throat as I lower her into the bath. Her whole body shivers, adjusting to the temperature.
I don’t scold her when she curls into herself, knees drawn to her chest, as if seeking refuge. The frothy bubbles cling to her pale skin, her dark hair pooling around her like ink. She looks like a siren rising from the depths—a creature who could steal a man’s soul with a single glance. She stole mine that morning in the cemetery.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice trembling as I settle on the tiled ledge behind her.
I dip my hand into the water, gathering a cascade to soak her hair. “Washing your hair.”
She stiffens, but I’m patient, working the water through the silken strands. After a few moments, I turn the faucet off.
“Why me?” she whispers barely above the sound of the water lapping. “Why did you choose me?”
My hands pause. “I didn’t,” I say, my voice low but certain. “You chose me.”
She shifts, turning her head to glance back at me, her brows furrowing in confusion.
“The first time I saw you…” I continue, my fingers threading through her hair again, “was in the cemetery. You emerged through the mist like a mirage, speaking to the graves as if they were old friends. It wasn’t just haunting; it was art in motion. You weren’t a muse in the making—you were a muse in the being. Something I’ve spent my life searching for.”
Her breath catches, her body stilling as my words sink in. She tips her forehead onto her knees, trying to calm her breaths, but it doesn’t stop her from trembling as I brush my gloved knuckles along the back of her shoulder.
“I’ve shed blood for you, Everleigh,” I murmur, my voice thick with something I can’t quite name. “And it won’t be long now.”
Her head tilts, her lips parting as she whispers, “What won’t?”
I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear as I say, “The moment the world will bow, not to me, but to the art I’ve made of you. The masterpiece I was destined to create.”
“God complex, much?” she mutters.
I snicker. “Hardly.”
“Says the guy with the stage name of Acheron, “God of Art”.”
“Rinse,” I command.
Holding her nose, Everleigh disappears beneath the frothy water before rising, quicker than I anticipated. Hmm…she’s curious. Her eyes are still unfocused from the liquor, but she trains them on me.
After shifting her hair to her front, I dig my fingers into the tension in her neck, amusement rippling in my chest at the longing moans coming from her lips. “Acheron was my chosenstage name. “God of Art” was a cult name that grew. So, if you have a problem with it, I suggest you take it up with my global audience of worshipers.” I smirk.
She scoffs, water dripping from her chin as she narrows those stormy gray eyes at me. “Worshipers? You’re insufferable.”
“Am I?” I counter, sliding my fingers lower, tracing the curve of her shoulder. Her breath catches, and I lean closer, my voice dropping to a low hum. “Or are you simply not ready to admit that you’ve already joined their ranks?”
Her laugh is sharp, defiant, but she shudders. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” I ask again. “All the greatest artists are, Little Quill. It’s part of the job description. But when the world sees you for what you are—the thing I’ve pulled from the depths to create—they’ll understand the truth.”
“What truth?”
When I lock eyes with her, she goes stiller than ever. I claim her chin, twisting her face closer and hovering above her lips to finalize, “The truth is that everything I’ve done, every move I’ve made, every brushstroke of my hand, has been for this moment. For you.”
The faintest flicker of anticipation dances across her features, and I let it linger, let it take root. Soon, the world will see what she’s meant to be. The essence of something eternal, the culmination of every piece of my soul poured into this flawless vessel.
“Are you going to tell me your real name?” Everleigh yawns as I tuck her into bed, following her bath and changing into a vintage silk nightgown I brought her. She wasn’t about to argue when she realized it was a negligee from the early 1900s with a bodice bustline of imported lace and a ruffle trim. The sensuous flowing satin fabric embraces her curves as if it were painted upon her frame.
“Not yet.”
I lift the sheets and climb in behind her, and she tenses. “What are you doing?” One split second with my hands on her hips, and she’s trying to escape. “Please don’t put it on again!” she cries, holding a pillow for purchase as I tug her back.
Before she breaks down again, I weave a hand around her pelvis, anchoring her to me, and clutch her throat with my other. A power move that captures her attention. “Shh…you earned freedom from the chastity belt, Little Quill.”
