Page 119 of The Art of Obsession
She pauses and looks back up at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. They gut me. They stab a fucking blade into my heart, into my soul. “And you… you’re the God of Art. You took me. You broke me. You bled me. You made me your masterpiece.”
My chest tightens, every word carving into my very alchemy.
“And now…” Her hand drifts to her stomach, almost unconsciously, and my breath catches. “Now you’ve given me something else. Something I never thought I’d have but always dreamed of.”
The world narrows to that small movement, her hand resting over the life we’ve created. My mind is a storm, chaotic and consuming, but her voice anchors me.
“I’m here because I want to be,” she says, her hands roaming from my hair to my neck. My dick jerks inside her. So fucking close.
Tears streak down her face as I lower my hands to her pelvis, then beyond until I work her wet clit.
“Oh, god, Cal!” she moans before gazing down at me with glassy tears. “Because you showed me who I am. And yeah, maybe I’m a little crazy, maybe I’m a little dark, but I’myours.And I don’t care how messy or dark it gets, because I know you’ll always fight for me. You’ll always choose me. And create me…forever.” Her silver eyes blaze. “So if you need to lock me in your gilded cage, if you need to dress me up and make me your puppet, I’ll let you. Because I trust you.Acheron. I trust you with every part of me. But you have to trust me, too. You have to let me be your light, your sun, your moon, your stars. Because you’re not just my God of Art. You’re the universe holding me.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I can’t take it anymore.
I snap. Gripping her hips, I bring her down hard and deep, spearing myself inside her and spilling my cum in her.
Through heaving breaths, I don’t stop playing with her clit or thumbing her nipples until she comes, screaming her release around me.
Now, she’s collapsed against me, her soft body against mine as I hold her trembling form. A moment later, my hands find her face, cradling it like she’s the most precious thing in the world—because she is.
“You’ve always been above me. My angel summoning me from the depths of hell.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, don’t say I’m your salvation. Or redeeming you.”
I chuckle. “Hardly. I cannot be redeemed. But your love is my haven in hell regardless. And when a devil finds his angel in thefires of hell, he won’t let her go. He’ll give her a throne…even if it burns her. You are my woman. My Goddess. My masterpiece.”
Her lips part, but I kiss her before she can say anything. A desperate and consuming kiss, a cataclysm of everything I feel for her. When I finally pull back, her wide-eyed gaze meets mine, and I press my forehead to hers. “You’re right,” I whisper. “Art is messy. And so are we. But I’ll never stop fighting for you. Never.”
I slide my hand to her stomach, resting it over hers. “This… this is everything. Not just my light. You’re everything. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
Her tears finally spill over, and she nods, her hands clutching at my chest, her fingers brushing the scars of her blades and my willing bullet wound—as if letting go isn’t an option. And it isn’t. Not for us.
Not ever.
TWO MONTHS LATER
The soft glow of the exhibit lights casts her in a warm, golden hue, highlighting every exquisite curve of Everleigh’s body.
It took time to recover. More time to build up my strength again, swimming, weight-lifting, body-building and more. If I ever wanted to go on tour again and maintain control of my empire, I needed to get back in shape again.
And I’ve never been prouder of my scars, the ones she gave me and the one I gave myself…for her.
My chest tightens. She lies naked in the bed, her skin luminous against the white sheets, her belly softly rounded with our child. I can’t stop staring at her, can’t stop marveling athow she’s changed, how she’s stillherbut somehow more—more beautiful, more powerful, more mine.
My brush glides over the canvas, red paint thick and viscous on the bristles. The color is rich, almost alive, and I know its source. It’s not just paint; it’sher.A part of her, just as she’s a part of me. I’ve been using it sparingly, savoring every stroke, every drop, because this is more than a painting. It’s a tribute. A vow.
Like the time I left my first sketch upon her bed, swearing to her my obsession, to make her my masterpiece.
Her body stirs, a subtle shift beneath the sheets. My eyes flick to her hand as it instinctively cradles her belly, protective and tender. The sight does something to me—something primal and raw. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and needed.
She blinks awake, her lashes fluttering like the softest wings, and her gaze finds mine. At first, she just watches me with that quiet, knowing look like prey caught in her predator’s gaze. Then her eyes flick to the jar of paint on the table beside me.
Red. Thick. Familiar.
Her lips curve into a small, amused smile, and she shakes her head. “You’re using my blood, aren’t you?” she murmurs, her voice soft and slightly raspy from sleep.
I smirk but say nothing, keeping the canvas turned away from her. She rises slowly, the sheets slipping from her body to pool around her waist. She doesn’t bother covering herself, and I don’t bother pretending I’m not staring.
