Page 9 of The Art of Obsession
Her lips part, the question forming before she even realizes it. “And what if I don’t find it?”
I can’t help my grin beneath my mask. I know the way my eyes glint when I’m amused—it’s deliberate, laser-tinted pupils from a world-class eye surgeon. A weapon I wield as easily as any blade. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Pain and pleasure, Everleigh Lennox.
Her pleasure is my palette, her emotions like a harmony of colors.
Her pain is my pigment. The raw substance that forms the palette—like an intense foundation. And I will rouse the depth of that substance regardless of the effect.
If she breaks, she breaks. Art is meant to break. If it does not ignite the heart and awaken the soul, one must break his art to create the exquisite beauty of heaven from the torment of hell.
I take her hand, relishing how she stiffens at my touch. Her skin is warm, her pulse quickening. I lead her to the kitchen, her resistance humming through her tense fingers.
If her spirit could be captured, it would be expressionism—bold form and colors to express those passionate emotionsdistorted from reality, reflecting inner turmoil and defiance. And suppressed but unbridled desire.
Inside the kitchen, I pull the blindfold from my pocket and step behind her. She flinches, and I bite back a chuckle.
“What is this?” she demands sharply.
“Merely an entertaining precaution,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath stirs the hairs near her ear. “The chemical I gave you is nearly at its peak, and I wouldn’t want you to ruin the surprise.”
She stiffens further, her indignation sparking as I imagine fiery colors. “Oh, are we going to play Pin the Tail on the Asshole now?”
Fiery colors mixed with the black and royal purple of her beautiful, macabre mind. Perhaps some burgundy or blood-red there, but I will enjoy learning more.
Her defiance is intoxicating. I chuckle, low and dark, the sound rumbling between us. “You never fail to amuse me, Little Quill.”
I spin her slowly, deliberately, the blindfold in place. She mutters curses, her balance faltering as I guide her steps. When I’m satisfied, I step away, leaving her swaying slightly. She doesn’t move. Her breath heaves and cleaves, straining the lower neckline of her black shirt and giving me a tantalizing view of her upper breasts.
Hunger sharpens inside me, growing at the thought of the hunt. I want her with every sick and twisted bone in my body.
The cupboard creaks as I retrieve the hourglass. It’s a thing of beauty—rare and extravagant, unnecessary, and utterly perfect.
I return to her, pulling the blindfold free. She blinks, disoriented, and takes a hesitant step. Her knees buckle slightly, and I catch her, my hands firm on her arms. Her warm and trembling body, weak from my drugs, so very soft, sends a primal jolt through me. She’s so ethereal, her eyes bearing anuntarnished purity, but I know a dark beauty with deep wounds lingers somewhere in the background. Something beyond the car crash and the loss of her fiance.
“Careful,” I murmur, steadying her. I turn her toward the nearest hallway.
Then, I step back, pulling out a chair and sweeping my cape behind me as I sit. Leaning back, I prop my boots on the table with a thud, turning the hourglass upside down with a soft thud. The glittering grains begin to fall.
“Your time starts now,” I say, my voice low, even. I tap the table an inch from the instrument.
Her eyes flick to the hourglass, and I read the thought practically blaring from her mind—she’s wondering if she can bash me over the head with it. The corner of my mouth quirks.
But then she freezes, her eyes widening as she lunges, hands trembling. “Oh. My. God. This is a De Beers! Gold-plated. Floating diamonds for the grains! These have gone at auction for fifty thousand dollars!”
I tilt my head, watching her examine it with the fascination of a magpie. “Is that so?” I say, amused by her distraction.
She turns the hourglass over in her hands, muttering about its craftsmanship, picking her way through the details. We are both lovers of art. Hers simply pertains to objects while mine is reserved for light and shadow, colors and textures—all coupled with the raw and visceral art of live presentation and performance.
I lean back further, folding my hands behind my head. “Ten minutes now, Little Quill,” I remind her.
Her head snaps up, and she sets the hourglass down, glaring at me with such feminine rage that I almost laugh. Then, with a sharp kick, she knocks my chair back, nearly sending me sprawling.
She bolts down the nearest hallway,. I laugh, dark and low, righting myself as I trace a gloved finger down the hourglass.
“Oh, she’ll pay for that later,” I murmur, my fantasies multiplying. A thrill surges through me, my blood pulsing with anticipation.
Let the game begin.
