Page 35 of The Art of Obsession
For a moment, I just sit there, stunned.
Well,Cherry says, her tone far too chipper as she straightens, wings humming.This is where the gas station attendant shows up, lures you inside, and introduces you to his toothless cult buddies who tie you up and?—
“Enough!” I snap. “You’re not real!” I spit at her, though I couldn’t function without her.
Neither is your plan.She shrugs, waving a hand.But here we are.
After slapping the steering wheel a few times—for stress relief—I shove the door open and climb out, the cold biting through my thin jacket. The car is tilted at an awkward angle, the front tires half-buried in mud. I kick one in frustration.
“Damn it!” Pain shoots through my foot, and I hiss, hopping on one leg.
Oh, yes, assault the tire. That’ll teach it to disrespect you.
I can hear the grin in her voice.
“Shut up,” I mutter, sliding down against the tire.
Don’t worry, I’m sure Acheron will appreciate your damsel aesthetic.She sashays, wings fluttering.
“Ugh!”
The tears come, hot and unwelcome. I bury my face in my knees, the weight of everything crashing down on me as I sit against this car, huddling into my jacket.
A few minutes later, the sound of an engine cuts through the silence. I look up, my breath hitching as headlights bathe me in their blinding glow. A car slows to a stop, the engine idling. Not just a car. A limousine.
I don’t need to see who it is.
I already know.
Acheron.
My breath comes in short,shallow gasps. The car door creaks open, and the sound of boots crunches on gravel.
“A ditch in the middle of nowhere,” Acheron says, his voice smooth as silk, laced with dark amusement. “Not exactly the grand escape you had in mind, is it?”
New mask. Always with the surreal blood drops. No less beautiful. The red three-piece suit is his signature. But tonight, the vest is black with mirrored blood drops. And the cape seems more menacing than ever.
I force myself to my feet, my legs trembling as I stab out my chin. “What do you want from me?”
He steps closer, and even though I can’t see his face, I feel his smirk. “What I’ve always wanted, Everleigh. You.”
In seconds, he closes the distance between us, pulling a gasp up from my throat. Gloved hands hem me in, one on each side of the car. The faintest scent of leather and something sharp—paint thinner, maybe—wafts toward me. His leather-clad fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, and I jerk back, my breath hitching.
“You’ve been running,” he murmurs, soft but mocking. “But you can’t outrun me. You know that, don’t you?”
I clench my fists, trying to summon the courage to spit back, but the words die in my throat. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, spreading gooseflesh. He’s too calm. Violently calm.
“Your plan wasn’t half bad.” He taps my nose in a scolding manner. “But one fatal flaw, Little Quill,” he says, and I shiver as he slides his hand to the back of my neck and taps there. “That last night we were together, I injected you with a tracker.”
Horror rips through me, icing my blood. I flex my fingers, resisting the urge to touch there and confirm his admission.
Oooh, it’s enough to give me the vapors!Cherry fans herself.
“I predicted you might run,” he tells me before coming off the car, giving me a few inches of space. “Come now,” he says, gesturing toward the open door of the sleek black limo. “Let’s not make this more difficult than necessary.”
I stare at the open door, the dark interior beckoning like the mouth of some giant beast. Every instinct screams at me to run, even though I know it’s futile.
I bolt.
