Page 83 of The Art of Obsession
“She’s not for you, Dorian. Not now. Not ever.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Like a Villain” – Bad Omens
“Isn’t Everyone?” – HEALTH & Nine Inch Nails
“Ascensionism” – Sleep Token
ACHERON
“I trustyou have something equally significant to offer tonight, Acheron,” Dorian muses as we sit on opposite sides of the steam room. His tone is light but probing. Classic Dorian.
I don’t bother with a towel here. No need for modesty given how far back we go. Our rivalry has always been as much a part of our relationship as our so-called friendship—two artists clawing our way to the top, sometimes with respect, other times with teeth bared.
I rose to fame first. My exhibits were bold, unflinching, the kind of work that critics couldn’t ignore and the public couldn’t look away from.
Dorian’s work was provocative, yes, but it lacked the raw edge that made mine unforgettable. I never speak on stage. Mywork and my performance speak for themselves while Dorian prefers to play up the crowd with his dark humor and smooth talk.
We crossed paths often and leaned into the rivalry, staging crossovers where our art became a contest of darkness, daring, and allure. The public ate it up, their fascination with our competition only fueling our fame.
He charmed. I allured.
Like his namesake, Dorian Gray, he threw himself into the world’s pleasures with reckless abandon. We reveled in excess together—lavish parties, forbidden liaisons, alliances forged in the shadowy corners of society. I can’t deny how our paths crossed in other ways…more private and forbidden. But it was clear we worked better as public rivals and private business partners.
But while Dorian was consumed by the pursuit of the next high, the next thrill, I began to retreat. The indulgence didn’t weaken me; it sharpened me. It made my art deeper, darker, and more resonant, while his became hollow echoes of what they used to be.
Steam curls between us, veiling his sharp features like a predator cloaked in mist. Beautiful bloody bastard. His high, sharp cheekbones catch the dim light, making his angular features seem elven but darker and grittier.
I lean back against the tiled wall, letting the heat seep into my muscles, but my mind is anything but relaxed. “If not more enticing,” I reply smoothly.
Dorian chuckles knowingly. “You’ve set quite the standard. It would be a shame to disappoint.”
His forest-green eyes gleam, a stark contrast to the ink sprawling across his skin.
I trace the edge of a faint scar on my wrist, a habit I’ve never managed to shake. My tattoos do not eclipse my scars. No, myfirst carvings, my original art could never be upstaged. The ink on my skin only accentuates them.
Dorian tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been quiet lately. Plotting something big, I assume?”
“Always,” I say evenly, sharpening my tone just enough to warn him off prying further.
“Big enough to top your last performance?” he presses, his voice smooth, but he’s hunting for cracks.
This is Dorian’s subtle flirtation. Cat and mouse. No, more like clever cat to cunning cat.
Dorian’s smirk deepens as his gaze flicks to my shoulder. He gestures lazily toward the faint scar there, the one Everleigh left when she stabbed me. “Ah, now this is art. I see you’ve already begun to chronicle it. Ink to immortalize the pain—how very you, Acheron.”
Breathing in the steam, I fondly remember Everleigh’s glazed expression when I tattooed the outline of her mark before her very eyes—then fucked her with the handle of the live tattoo gun vibrating against her pretty clit.
Cracking my neck to one side, I offer a faint smile, more a baring of teeth than anything genuine. “Every mark tells a story, doesn’t it?”
His eyes narrow as they drift to my other shoulder. His finger lifts, tracing the air in a mocking gesture toward the fresh scar—a bullet wound. “But this one… this one’s new. A souvenir from one of your little escapades?”
My body tenses, tense heat prickling my skin. “Not every story needs telling,” I say, my tone flat, final.
Dorian chuckles, the sound low and sharp. “Fair enough. Some scars speak loudest in silence.”
I let the hiss of steam fill the silence. The past week has been a labyrinth of dead ends and frustration. The informant who promised me a lead on the hitmen’s employer didn’t make ourmeeting. A freak car accident, they said. But I’ve lived too long in this world of shadows to believe in coincidence.
