Page 116 of The Art of Obsession
Cherry raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips.A whole new wing, huh? Overachiever much?
I can’t help but grin. “You know I don’t do things halfway. Besides…” I shrug, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Cherry’s gaze softens as she looks toward Cal.It did. But it didn’t wake him up. Maybe you need to install a gong in here. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”
He does look beautiful.
One of the first things I did after Cal was stabilized was find the room where he kept all his masks.
The room was overwhelming at first, a vault of identities, each mask like a sacred relic, dark and haunting. And every last one had the bloody tears.
After he shared his past, and when I saw that room, it became clear to me. He would never forget about the blood cult and the horror of losing Naomi. But I understood. When I stabbed Dorian through the heart because I was fighting for something, someone, I understood what he must have felt. And how theblood, her killer’s blood, meant so much to him—how it meant justice. And punishment.
Leaning over, I touch one side of his mask, brushing my fingertips along those bloody drops.
For the past five weeks, while he’s laid unconscious, I’ve visited his ‘Mask Room’ every day. I carefully swap them out every day, hoping the right mask might coax him out of unconsciousness.
By now, I’ve gone through every mask. It’s my silent way of keeping him connected, of reminding him who he is. Or maybe it’s just for me, a ritual to keep me from falling apart.
Cherry flutters her wings.Aww, that’s why you have me, sweetie pea. Remember how we thought of the best one? That cheap party store mask you brought in? The one where you drew clown makeup on it? Little hearts and everything? Priceless.
I can’t help but laugh, though I keep it quiet.He needed a little humor. Besides, it was only for a day.
Yeah, but that day was glorious,Cherry says, grinning and rising to circle his bed.I almost wish he’d woken up just to see his face—or, you know, his MASK—when he realized you’d turned him into a sad clown.
I roll my eyes but smile at the memory.It wasn’t sad. It was whimsical.
Sure, babe.Cherry winks and vibrates her wings.Whimsical. Nothing says ‘artistic genius’ like dollar-store plastic and Sharpie hearts.
A wave of nausea overwhelms me, cutting off my breathy laughs. But I breathe through it this time. Not too intense. I focus on Cal, wondering if our child will have his dark eyes—minus the crimson glints—or my gray ones. Or somewhere in between. I miss those glints. And how deeply he would look at me even through his masks.
I glance back at him, the weight of the last few days pressing on me. He looks almost peaceful.
Go on and kick him already.
I size up my figment, noticing her tight-fitting black leather mini dress. I roll my eyes.You’d probably be more helpful if you didn’t stand there looking like you just stepped out of a BDSM fashion magazine.
Hey, I’m here to provide emotional support,Cherry says with a mock salute.And by emotional support, I mean making sure you don’t lose your mind from all the ‘he’ll wake up any minute now’ drama.
Yeah, that involves her giving me all sorts of twisted, kinky fantasies, which she claims as “inspiration” for Cal when he wakes up.
And look who’s talking, Missy.She pokes a finger at me.You’re wearing nothing but sheer white lingerie under that black silk robe. You want to impress him just as much. Admit it.
I roll my eyes, but my gaze flickers back to the man in the bed. He’s no less devastating. His face is still a masterpiece sculpted by gods. A brutal beauty incarnate with sharp angles, cliff-high cheekbones, and sensual, full lips. If only he’d open his eyes…strip me bare like he always does with one powerful look of sheer devotion. He could weaponize his dark eyes in an instant, a blade meant to pierce and conquer.
In some ways, I resent his serene face. He doesn’t look like the man who shot himself in the shoulder like an idiot. An idiot who was so hellbent on his obsession. So obsessed with me, he wasn’t just willing to die for me. Or kill for me. He was willing to killhimselffor me.
I’d say that takes the grand prize for crazy, unhinged stalkers.
She’s not wrong.
I sigh, my hand brushing against the side of the bed.
“Do you think he’ll wake up and immediately start complaining?” I murmur absentmindedly.
Oh, absolutely,she says with a wicked grin.He’ll probably act like he’s been in a coma for ten years and demand a parade in his honor.
I wish the humor helped, but the tension in my chest doesn’t let up. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
