Page 36 of The Art of Obsession
I can feel his predatory eyes digging into me from behind. My feet pound against the gravel, slipping and sliding as I veer off the road and into the woods. Branches slap against my face and snag my clothes, but I don’t stop.
Oh, brilliant move,Cherry quips, her vision blurry as she runs alongside me, her voice dripping with sarcasm.Run into the forest like one of those bimbo girls in the movies. You know, the ones who always get caught because they’re too dumb to stay on the road?
“Shut up!” I hiss between gasps, glancing over my shoulder.
Seriously, if you were smart, you’d turn right back around, fall into his arms, and beg for mercy. At least then you’d have a chance. But no, you’re out here, tripping over roots, knowing full well an unhinged stalker is hunting you down. Great plan, genius.
I stumble, nearly face-planting into a tree, and Cherry cackles in my head.
Look at you, survival queen,she sneers.If this were a horror movie, you’d be the opening kill.
I grit my teeth, pushing myself harder. The trees blur around me, and the cold air burns my lungs. But then I hear it—the crunch of leaves behind me, steady and unhurried.
He’s following me.
No, he’shuntingme.
I don’t dare look back again.My legs scream in protest, but I keep going until my foot catches on a root, sending me sprawling to the ground.
For a moment, I just lie there, gasping, the weight of inevitability pressing down on me.
The sound of boots draws closer, deliberate and measured.
“You can run, Everleigh,” Acheron’s voice calls out, smooth and taunting from the thick trees. I can’t see him. “But you’ll never get away.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear into the earth.
Cherry stands over me, arms crossed over her chest, rolling her eyes.A for effort, F for execution. Classic Evie. If running away was an Olympic sport, you’d be in the blooper reel.
I really need to have a long talk with my inner self-critic.
The next thing I know, thick leather coils around my throat, tightening until I’m choking, coughing. Acheron hauls me to my feet as I thrash from sheer terror knifing through me. He’s nearly dragging me out of the woods.
“You try mypatience,” he says, emphasizing the last word.
I grip the belt, trying to widen the gap. “Acheron! P-pl-please, I-I can’t breathe!” I rasp.
You’re choking, he’s fuming, and I’m over here wishing I had popcorn. What a show!
I imagine slugging her in the throat so she can join the wheezy breath club.
Maybe next time, try not to provoke the guy with a leather fetish and control issues?She still sounds louder than ever.
Once Acheron gets me into the back of the limousine, he finally loosens the belt.
“Drive,” he orders, and the limousine begins moving.
I hear the rising of the black partition, but my vision is blurry from the lack of air. The next thing I know, he’s got me turned over on his lap with my skirt hiked up around my hips, underwear pulled down, and the belt coming down hard on my bare ass.
The shock splits me open. And then, I scream through clenched teeth, afraid I’ll chip one…until he shoves a leather glove in my mouth. “Bite.”
I do.
He swings the belt again.Crack!It burns my cheeks like hellfire. My shrieks are muffled. I’m writhing. Spitting. Cursing. Every strike is hot, radiating over each cheek, deep enough to scald through muscle and find the bone.
He beats the ever-loving shit out of me. Acid rises in my throat, tears clogging my eyes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. He’s not just Acheron. He’s the God of Art, punishing his art, whipping it into shape for its audacity to defy him. He paints my ass with the belt. The carnal glint in his eyes—a ravenous predator unleashed—the primal blood play of the mask, and his heavy breaths all surge pride into my chest…
