Page 38 of The Art of Obsession
I chuckle. Deeply. A dangerous amusement pulsates through me, hardening my cock to its breaking point. “Oh, Everleigh. The infinite number of ways I will hurt you.”
She swallows hard, putting up a brave front, but more tears escape. Her breaths grow more shallow. Such delicious tears. I get off on her fear, her pain. I get off on every emotion she gives me.
“Is that what you need?” she mutters, pressing her lips into a tight seam, but she still doesn’t open her eyes. “I already knew you were a control freak, egomaniac, power-hungry one-man empire. But you need the torture and the pain to get off?”
How does this willowy, little girl manage to test me so—especially with her eyes shut?
Loosening my grip on her hair, I lay her head down so one side still faces me before trailing a finger along her inflamed ass. Her soft cry jerks my dick. “With you, Little Quill? I get off oneverything. You are my eternity. The rebirth of every canvas, every surface I could ever desire. Every emotion you gift me is another shade of your soul. I will bring those shades to life.”
“You need me to save you or something? Absolve you?”
I throw my head back and laugh heartily, patting one plump cheek. If her face could catch fire, it would, but she maintains her resolve—spine tightening.
Turning back to her, I steel my jaw and respond, “Do I look like a man who craves absolution?”
She parts her lips, but the soft shake of her head is sweet and submissive. “If I sought a savior, I would carve one from the stars itself. But I prefer my sins in full, vivid color. What I want and need most is you, the star stuff you are, the elements of Everleigh Elizabeth Lennox.”
Finally, she opens her eyes, greeting me with a cold, gray moonlight.
Her lips tremble, and I see the fight warring in her eyes—the urge to argue and deny me her surrender. But her silence is a symphony, and I am the maestro.
I trail my fingers along her jawline, tilting her face up so she must meet my gaze. “Do you know what that makes you, Little Quill?” I murmur dangerously, like a predator to his prey.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t answer. Brave, foolish girl.
“It makes youmine.Every thought, every tear, every defiant heartbeat—mine to shape, mine to break, mine to birth.”
Her eyes cut against mine. She knows she can’t escape. When flight is no longer an option, she will give me her fight. And whenshe does, I will meet her on the battlefield…and crush her every damn time.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the delicate curve of her throat. “You’re tired, aren’t you, Everleigh?” I whisper. “So much running, so much resistance. After your punishment, you deserve to rest.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, suspicion flickering like a candle in a storm. “What are you?—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to her lips, silencing her. “No more questions. Just sleep.”
From my pocket, I retrieve the small vial I’d prepared. She jerks slightly as I inject her, but she’s too exhausted.
Her lashes flutter, and her body slackens. “There you go, Little Quill,” I murmur, cradling her like a precious treasure. “Drift away.”
I leanagainst the one-way glass, arms crossed, savoring the sight of Everleigh stirring.
After drugging her, I’d bathed her, braided her hair in intricate designs, and changed her into the vintage lace nightgown I’d first sketched upon her captured form.
It’s everything I planned and plotted for so many years. It clings to her like a second skin, soft and sheer, leaving just enough to the imagination. She shifts against the silk sheets, her gray eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep. Confusion knots her brows, those storm-cloud eyes darting around the room.
The stage is set. Now, I shall enjoy how she performs in real life.
She’s mesmerizing. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling beneath the delicate fabric. She brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, her fingers trembling as she sits up. The bed creaks beneath her.
“Hello?” Her voice is tentative, laced with uncertainty. “Where the hell am I?”
She blinks a few times, adjusting her vision.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug. I chose it specifically for her—rich burgundy with intricate gold patterns, a piece of history beneath her toes. She stands, her posture tense, and glances around the room again. The writing desk catches her eye, the Tiffany lamp beside it casting a warm, golden glow.
“Hello?” she calls louder this time, more panic. “Is anyone there?”
I suppress a smile, watching her unravel. It’s like observing a butterfly caught in a jar, beautiful and desperate. She crosses the room, pressing her frantic hands against the glass.
