Page 4 of Infinite Darkness (The Artmaker Trilogy #2)

Atticus had been gone for a while now, his footsteps fading down the hall long ago, but I hadn’t moved an inch since I had laid down to take a nap.

The bed beneath me felt like it had swallowed me whole, holding me down in a heavy, suffocating embrace I couldn’t claw my way out of.

My tears had dried sticky on my cheeks, but fresh ones threatened every time I blinked.

My body felt like lead, my blood like ice water running slow and thick through my veins.

Everything inside me screamed that this was bad—so bad there weren’t even words big enough to hold it. My mind tried to string sentences together, but all it found were jagged fragments. Serial killer. Art made of flesh. Your name could be on his hands tomorrow.

And yet… I hadn’t run. I hadn’t fought harder. I hadn’t said the keyword: Marvin .

That thought rotted in my stomach worse than the fear. Because it wasn’t just survival that kept me in this house anymore, wasn’t just the blizzard outside or the locked doors. It was something deeper. Darker. Something that made my thighs clench under the blanket despite myself.

He’d told me I was too beautiful to turn into art, and that scared me more than the thought of him killing me.

Because what if one day he woke up, looked at me, and decided he’d been wrong?

That I’d look prettier stretched and tanned like leather, or mounted on his wall where his twisted hands could admire me forever?

A sob tore out of me, raw and ugly, and I buried my face in the pillow to smother the sound.

The cotton scraped my wet cheeks, my breath hot and uneven as it soaked the fabric.

My whole body trembled, my breasts aching where they pressed against the pillow, my nipples painfully tight from the chill in the room—or maybe from the ghost of his touch still imprinted on my skin.

I hated myself for remembering it. The way his voice had curled around my name like a chain.

The weight of his body pinning me down, the brutal, unrelenting way he’d taken me.

I wanted to call it violation, to make it something that fit neatly in a box labeled not my fault .

But the ache between my legs was proof of the truth I couldn’t swallow: part of me had wanted it. Part of me still wanted more.

That thought made me cry harder, my sobs muffled and broken, my head pounding from the force of them.

I was disgusting. Sick. There was a good man waiting for me out there—Marvin, sweet, safe, normal—and here I was in another man’s bed, craving hands that killed, a mouth that lied, a soul steeped in darkness.

I didn’t move for what felt like forever, time slipping past in a haze of tears and shame, until heavy footsteps creaked down the hall. My body tensed, heart leaping to my throat, every nerve screaming to hide even though it was too late. The door opened without hesitation.

“It’s been nearly two hours.” His voice filled the room, calm but sharp-edged, like the quiet before a storm. “I said one.”

I scrubbed at my face with trembling fingers, avoiding his gaze. “I… I don’t feel good.” My voice was raw, barely audible, like it had splintered on the way out.

“I know.” His tone didn’t soften. “But you’re still coming to the living room. Now.”

The command in his voice dug under my skin like a hook, dragging my pulse faster even as fear tightened my throat. I lifted my eyes just enough to glare, even though it felt useless.

Atticus’s lips curved, not kind, not cruel—just certain. Amusement flickered in his expression as his gaze slid over me, confident as a man who never doubted obedience. “Go ahead and glare, Bluebell,” he said, voice smooth as sin. “You’re still going to do what I said.”

He turned and left without checking if I’d follow, because why would he? Men like him didn’t need to question if their prey would come when called.

For a heartbeat, I stayed frozen on the bed, staring at the empty doorway, wondering what would happen if I didn’t go.

Would he drag me out by the hair? Tie me up again?

Would he hurt me—or would he just look at me the way he had last night, with that dark hunger that made me hate how much my body responded?

I pushed my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. My limbs felt heavy, but survival had a weight all its own. If I was going to get out of here, if I was ever going to see daylight and freedom again, I’d need food, strength, a clear head.

Maybe I could still steal his truck. Maybe I could still find a way to town. Maybe Marvin was still waiting.

But as I stood, the thought of Marvin didn’t warm me like it should have. It didn’t make me feel safe or loved or hopeful. It just felt… hollow. Like he was a dream from another lifetime, a different version of me that hadn’t yet learned what it meant to want something so wrong it burned.

And God help me… part of me didn’t know if I’d ever get that part of myself back.

I stared at the torn pajamas crumpled on the floor, fabric frayed and useless now, a ghost of last night I wished I could burn.

My chest tightened as I shoved them deeper into my bag, out of sight but not out of memory.

Everything in this cabin clung to me—his scent on my skin, his words in my head, his hands branding invisible marks I couldn’t scrub away.

I changed into clean lounge pants and a T-shirt, moving slow, like my limbs weren’t mine.

I needed the comfort of soft cotton, but even dressed, I felt bare.

Exposed. My throat ached from crying, and my eyes burned, but it wasn’t just exhaustion making me weak.

It was the war inside me, clawing me apart piece by piece.

Every step toward the living room felt like walking deeper into a trap I couldn’t see a way out of. Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe the snow wasn’t the only thing keeping me here anymore.

Atticus was already there when I entered, lounging in the same armchair he’d sat in last night, one hand draped over the armrest, the other holding a glass of water.

He looked up the moment I crossed the threshold, green eyes locking on me with that unblinking intensity that made it hard to breathe.

Like he was dissecting me, peeling me open from the inside out.

“Good girl,” he murmured, low and smooth, like obedience was the only thing that mattered in the world. He tilted his head toward the couch. “Sit.”

I obeyed without thinking, my body moving before my brain caught up.

The cushion dipped beneath me, and I folded my hands tight in my lap, staring down at my knuckles so I didn’t have to look at him.

Silence pressed heavy between us, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the house and the howl of the wind outside.

My mind wouldn’t stop spinning, looping through every thought I’d tried to bury upstairs. The truth he’d thrown at me like a knife— I kill people, I make them art —and the even uglier truth inside me: I hadn’t run. I hadn’t screamed. I hadn’t fought like I should have. I hadn’t used my safe word.

And Marvin. Marvin with his kind words on paper, ink smudged where his hand must have lingered over every line.

Marvin, the man I was supposed to meet, supposed to build a future with.

But his voice didn’t live in my head the way Atticus’s did.

Marvin’s promises of safety and love felt far away now, faded and uncertain, like a dream I’d almost woken from.

But Atticus? He was here, inescapable, every breath I took full of his presence, every heartbeat tangled up in his.

A throat cleared, pulling me out of my thoughts. My head jerked up, and there he was, watching me from that chair like he’d been reading every word written across my face. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze sharp as a scalpel.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “We’re going to talk.”

My voice scraped out of my throat, raw. “I don’t want to talk. I’ve said everything I needed to.”

He studied me, unhurried, like a man choosing the sharpest blade from his collection.

“I know,” he said at last. “And I gave you time. But you’ve been drowning up there, Bluebell.

I could hear it.” His tone softened, just a fraction, a dangerous trick of velvet over steel.

“I’m not asking you to forget what I told you.

I’m asking you to let me prove that you’re not just another name, another piece of art in my world. Give me that chance.”

Something inside me snapped, jagged and uncontrollable, and before I could stop myself, the words spilled out, shaking and furious. “A chance at what, Atticus? At surviving you? At waking up one day and realizing you’ve decided I’d look better stretched across your wall?”

The air shifted, heavy, electric, and then his hand was on my throat, fast and unyielding, pinning me to the couch cushion before I could flinch. My breath caught in my lungs, my pulse roaring in my ears as his face came inches from mine, his voice low and lethal.

“You listen to me, Bluebell,” he said, every word deliberate, a razor’s edge of control.

“You don’t raise your voice to me. You don’t spit filth like that in my face.

And you don’t”—his grip tightened just enough to make my lungs scream for air—“ever talk about yourself like you’re nothing. Not to me.”

He released me with a shove that left me gulping air, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Fear tangled with something hotter, darker, pooling low in my stomach until I wanted to scream at my body for betraying me yet again.

He sat back, perfectly calm, as if he hadn’t just stolen my breath. “Can you speak to me like a lady now?”

My lips parted, trembling, and I nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Yes.”