Page 55 of The Art of Obsession
I close the distance between us again. This time, I lower myself until I’m just above her, marveling at how she doesn’t shrink despite the very real fear in her eyes. She is a wonder. So full of spirit and authenticity.
I rub my lips along her brow and station a hand on each side of her. My fingers twitch, the muscles longing to bleed her and carve my mark upon her until I seal myself to her soul for eternity. “Now…I cut you.”
23
She’s perfect like this—helpless, terrified, and utterly mine
Chapter Playlist:
“Animals” – Maroon 5,
“Closer” – Nine Inch Nails
“Blood Sport” – Sleep Token
“Better Than Drugs” – Skillet
ACHERON
She gave them a good show.
And me, a worthy challenge.
Her struggles, her screams, the snapping of her teeth only intensified my dark cravings. A brutal hunger only pain can appease. A practice that dates back to my childhood.
Her fear surrounds me. It fills my senses like a drug, surging heat to my cock and swelling the organ.
Now, she lies before me, bound and trembling, her wrists and ankles secured with silken restraints. The fairy lights bathe her nude form in a soft, golden glow, turning her skin luminous. She’s perfect like this—helpless, terrified, and utterly mine.
I trace my gloved fingers over her chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breaths. Her wide eyes, shimmering with tears, flicker between me and the shadowy figures behind the glass.
“You’ll see it soon,” I murmur, leaning close enough for my breath to graze her ear. “The beauty in this. The strength it will give you. And the eternal gift it will give me.”
She jerks against the restraints, her voice trembling with defiance. “You’re sick. And twisted. You’re fucking crazy!”
Smirking, I stretch my arms out and proclaim, “The greatest artists always are.”
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve the scalpel, its blade catching the light in a glint of silver. Terror rips through her expressions, but beneath the eyes of prey, I find a morbid curiosity. My fingers twitch with anticipation as I press the edge gently to her chest, just above her heart. Her gasp is sharp, her body recoiling, but there’s nowhere for her to go.
The first cut is deliberate, shallow, a clean line that draws a bead of crimson. Her cry pierces the silence, raw and visceral, as her back arches off the bed. I place my free hand firmly on her shoulder, anchoring her to the mattress.
“Breathe,” I say, my voice low, steady.
She is the only one who can rouse and appease the demons in me.
Tilting my head, I smirk at what I find between her legs. When I flick my eyes back to hers, her cheeks are burning with the gravity of how I caught her.
“Look at you, Little Quill. Nearly dripping,” I say, trailing my gloves through her glistening folds.
“You’ll rot in hell for this,” she spits.
Removing my gloves, I snicker darkly and twirl my blade with my other hand while sliding one finger inside her slick opening. “I came from hell, sweet girl. I crawled out of its pitsand earned my scars as the art I created through pain and survival. Tonight, you will get a taste…and show me heaven.”
I fit a leather strap between her teeth, remind her to breathe, then lower the blade to her flesh. She tries, but all she can manage are short, ragged gasps. Tears spill from the corners of her eyes, trailing down her temples and pooling in her hair.
Fuck, she bleeds so beautifully, so exquisitely. Cutting a woman, cuttingthiswoman is an indescribable high. With every cut of the blade, every drop of blood spilled, I lose myself and find myself. Nothing exists but the art I write on her skin and the emotions she gives me. I feel every ragged breath she sheds. I feel her very essence dripping onto my hands.
One glimpse at the clients witnessing my art shows hands gripping the edges of chairs or curling into fists. Their restraint is a fragile thread. They lick their dry lips, betraying the craving they can’t voice.
