Page 39 of The Art of Obsession
It’s the size of a small suite. Large enough for an attached bathroom and sitting area with an old, black-and-white silent film projector. I eagerly await her tinkering with it.
But first…
“Let me out of here!” she screams, marching for the glass, and pounding her fists against the barrier. The sound echoes through the exhibit. “You’ve gone way too far, Acheron! Open this door right now!”
Her fists rain down on the glass, her face contorted in anger. “You sick, twisted bastard! I swear, if you don’t open this door, I’ll?—”
I chuckle softly, though she can’t hear. She’s exquisite, her emotions raw and unfiltered. True.
She spins around, her gaze landing on the rocking chair near the bed. I see the decision forming in her mind. Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowing with determination.
“Don’t do it, Little Quill.”
She marches to the chair, her small frame trembling as she lifts it. The wood creaks under her grip, the legs wobbling slightly as she hefts it into the air. She turns back to the glass, her expression defiant, and raises the chair above her head.
I press the intercom button, my voice calm and smooth as it fills the room. “You may want to think twice about that, Everleigh.”
She freezes, the chair still raised. Her head snaps toward the source of my voice, her lips curling into a snarl. “Think twice about what, you asshole?”
“Look at the chair,” I say, my tone measured, almost amused. Heat surges to my cock.
Her gaze drops to the chair in her hands. She blinks, then gasps, her grip loosening slightly. She lowers it slowly, her hands trembling as she sets it down with exaggerated care.
“That,”—I tell her—“is an original Shaker rocking chair from the late 1700s. Priceless. Perhaps you would care to inspect the rest of the room?”
She stares at the chair, her expression one of disbelief and horror. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the writing desk, the gilded mirror, the antique armoire.
“Oh, you…” she snarls. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, you smug bastard hoarder!” She shakes her fist, crosses her arms over her chest, and stomps about the room. Fuming the whole time. How fucking hard it gets me. “This is psychological warfare, you walking auction house with an ego problem and undoubtedly daddy issues! Do you get off on knowing I can’t even throw a tantrum without damaging history?!” she accuses. “You knew I wouldn’t destroy any of this.”
“Guilty as charged,” I reply, leaning closer to the glass.
She spins on her heel, her fists clenched at her sides. “Fucking hate you,” she spits, her voice cracking with frustration. “You’ve turned my passion into aprison. I hope you choke on your self-righteousness, you irredeemable bastard!”
I smirk, watching her pace the room like a caged animal. Her anger is palpable, radiating off her in waves. She glares at the glass. The one with antique stained glass from the Renaissance period.
“I hate you so much,” she snaps, voice trembling.
“Noted,” I murmur, the corners of my mouth twitching.
She lets out a frustrated growl, her hands tugging at her hair. Slowly, her anger begins to ebb, replaced by reluctant curiosity. She approaches the writing desk, her fingers brushing the intricate carvings.
Fuck, she’s a vision. She’s forgotten all about her state of dress, but her nipples pebble as she takes in the historic artifact. She gets off on history like I get off on my art.
She moves to the bookshelf, her eyes scanning the leather-bound tomes. Pausing on an ornate book, she pulls it out, flipping through the yellowed pages with reverence.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
My chest tightens at Dorian shifting beside me. His tattooed arms crossed as he watches her with rapt attention. I’d almost forgotten about him. I’d wanted to savor this first sight of her, but I never expected my “apprentice” to pay for thedeluxepackage. A VIP behind-the-scenes access. He was the only one, considering what an exorbitant rate I charged. Part of me knows he did it solely to curry favor.
Dorian has opened for my performances a few times. But he knows he can’t hold a candle to the “God of Art”. I imagine it must have cost him the equivalent of multiple tours to enjoy the deluxe package.
His long blonde hair falls over his shoulder, framing his angular face. The ink on his skin is a tapestry. He’s like a glorified elf meets a mafia overlord. A pity he is a mafia overlord’s son and therefore has the connections I must maintain.
Keep your friends close and your rivalscloser.
“She’s magnificent,” he says in a voice like worship.
I stiffen, my gaze snapping at him. Dorian is an artist, but his tattoos are his legacy, each design meticulously etched into his flesh. He has ink. I have scars. And a handful of tattoos. A quite prominent one.
