Page 26 of The Art of Obsession
She waves a hand.Those are just love bites, sweetie. Sure you don’t want to help me with the shrine?
To my utter amazement, I follow her into the mental room and avoid the feeling of the butt plug and belt. While I shower, we argue over obsidian, gold, or twisted ironwork for the altar. We set up a giant canvas with a key dangling over it, symbolizing his control. Paintbrushes, palette knives, lengths of rope, and painted skulls and bones complete the shrine.
There now!Cherry chirps and tosses her bright pink hair back onto her shoulder before kissing my cheek.Wasn’t that fun?
12
“It will be an exhibit of violent beauty, as only the God of Art can give.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Monsters” - Ruelle
ACHERON
I pushthrough the cool water of the pool, each stroke a calculated effort to maintain the physique I need for my audience.
The rhythmic motion of my arms and legs feels almost meditative. The water’s resistance forces my body to stay sharp and in control. The deep blue beneath me is calming, but I can’t escape the thoughts that keep creeping in—Everleigh. Her defiance, her passion, her surrender, her presence…she’s an impossible distraction.
Especially when I remember how fucking perfect her throat felt wrapped around my cock. How sweet she was when she responded. Not out of need to impress like hundreds of other girls I’ve honored with my dick.
I felt the desire in her body, her vulnerability, and the power she took through her submission. Fucking flawless.
I reach the edge of the pool and pull myself up, dripping wet, muscles aching but satisfied. The gym is my next stop. It’s not just vanity. Running in the circles I do, staying in shape isn’t just for the performance. It’s survival. Strength keeps you on top. Strength keeps you untouchable.
In my wet boxers, the towel wrapped around my shoulders, I move to the weight racks. The clank of iron fills the air as I settle into my body-building routine. I must maintain my power when running in the black market circles and the violent underground.
Now more than ever. Because of her. Tomorrow will begin her introduction into my world. A world she has no place in. One far too dark to touch someone with the soft gray of her spirit mirrored in her misty eyes…just like the mist she passed through like an angel in that cemetery. She will be exhibited for the art she is. And while others will watch the raw reality she will bring—the ultimate fantasy no performance practice could bring—she still belongs to me. Look but don’t touch. Iwillprotect my muse and masterpiece.
That first time I saw her, she touched each grave with her pale hand, tracing the faded carvings of the names, gracing the stones with her presence. She spoke to them, revered the echoes of history in such a way that made my heart fucking clench. Because she treated the pieces of history like art, a gift of art.
In that moment, I knew Everleigh Lennox was the living embodiment of what I’d spent my life searching for. Not just a sycophantic fangirl wanting me to sign her goddamn tits. But one who could bond with my soul.
She didn’t even know who I was.
I laugh internally as I add two more weights and bench press 300 pounds with no safeguard. She challenges me. Not to become a better man. No, she forces me to become a darker man, one who would drown the world in blood for her. And leave a trail of corpses of anyone who would dare touch her.
I’m so focused on the burn that I don’t hear him at first.
“Boss,” my manager’s voice cuts through the haze of exertion.
I turn, setting the weights on their bar, and wipe the sweat from my brow, my eyes narrowing as I meet his gaze. “What?”
“Pardon the disturbance. But they’ve got him,” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “The customs agent. We tracked him down. He was trying to escape on a private flight, but the enforcers you sent caught him before he could leave.”
Ira turns to me. “Also, your agent left a message, sir. He wants to know your decision on the next tour.”
My mind shifts gears. My next tour? It’s not happening.
“Forget the tour,” I say, my voice sharp. “What I’m about to do with this exhibit will bring in ten times the income. Maybe more.”
A quick glance at the clock tells me I’m running out of time. The meeting with the client is coming up. An idea forms. A perfect way to relieve tension and appease my client.
First, I need the mask.
They hangupon the walls of my suite. My treasured art. Each one handmade. Each one painted by my professional and passionate hand.
But I don’t choose just any mask. No, this one is special. Black-painted eyes, violent blood drops, and surreal skull symbols mark its surface. It’s a reminder of who I am, of what I do. I fix it to my face with practiced ease.
