Page 5 of Infinite Darkness (The Artmaker Trilogy #2)

“Good girl.” His praise slid over me like a caress, and I hated how my pulse skipped for it, hated the warmth crawling up my neck.

Every instinct screamed that this man was wrong, dangerous, the kind of hunger you don’t survive.

But part of me wanted to give in, to see what it would feel like to stop fighting and just… let him win.

And that terrified me more than his hands ever could.

The air between us felt razor-thin, heavy with everything unspoken.

My pulse hammered against my ribs as I sat stiff on the couch, refusing to look at him.

Every instinct screamed to stay put, to keep even an inch of distance between us—but that same instinct flickered, traitorous, with a pull I didn’t understand.

“Bluebell,” he said softly, but the steel in his tone threaded through every syllable. “Come here.”

My stomach dropped. My legs felt like they’d turned to stone, but my body moved anyway, like he’d hooked invisible strings into my spine and tugged.

Each step toward him made my heart pound harder, my breath shallow and shaky.

I stopped just in front of his chair, my hands knotted in my shirt like a lifeline.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise low and deliberate, sliding over my skin like a brand. He patted his thigh once, eyes never leaving mine. “Sit.”

A tremor ran through me as I lowered myself onto his lap, careful, uncertain, but he didn’t let me perch on the edge for long.

His arms closed around me, dragging me closer until my back was flush to his chest, his warmth wrapping around me like a cage.

My pulse skittered wildly, my body betraying me all over again with the sharp ache between my thighs.

It felt like I was splitting in two. One part of me—the sane part, the part that remembered who I was before this cabin, before him —was terrified. I wanted to claw my way free, to run until my lungs burned, to find a road that led me anywhere but here.

But the other part? The one I hated? She melted into his hold, wanted more of his control, wanted the weight of his dominance pressing down on me until I didn’t have to think, didn’t have to choose.

The part that read those books in the dark, that imagined being taken, owned, forced to surrender because I couldn’t do it on my own—that part was winning.

Atticus leaned down, lips brushing my ear, his voice a dark, intimate whisper. “Now that I’ve got you where I want you…” His arms tightened, possessive, as his gaze locked on mine, unwavering. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and nodded once, too afraid—or too conflicted—to speak.

“You asked me what happens when I get tired of you,” he said, his tone almost gentle, like he was explaining something simple, undeniable. “What happens when I don’t think you’re pretty anymore… when I start looking at you and imagining you as one of my pieces of art.”

My lips barely moved. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved, a smile that wasn’t kind but wasn’t cruel either—just sure.

“That will never happen, Bluebell. I don’t know how to explain it, because I don’t understand it myself.

But you…” He tilted his head, studying me like I was something rare, fragile, impossible to replicate.

“You’re the only thing in this world I could never destroy.

I could never turn you into art, because you already are. My masterpiece. My addiction.”

My breath caught, the words sliding under my skin like they belonged there.

“But you said you’d hurt me,” I whispered, voice trembling. “You said you’d never harm me. What’s the difference?”

His smile darkened, something wicked and knowing flickering in his eyes.

“Hurt is pain, Bluebell,” he said, his voice low, deliberate, each word landing like a touch I couldn’t escape.

“Pain can be given, taken, shared. It burns hot and fades. Sometimes it’s the sweetest thing in the world when you let yourself feel it.

” His fingers brushed my jaw, tracing down my throat, not squeezing, just a reminder of what he could do.

“Harm is different. Harm leaves scars you can’t heal from.

Harm breaks what can’t be put back together. I could never harm you.”

The heat in my cheeks spread, a confusing cocktail of fear and… something far worse. Something I couldn’t name without choking on it.

He shifted slightly beneath me, his voice dipping darker, the weight of his words like a chain settling around my neck.

“You asked what kind of chance I want,” he murmured, his hand closing over mine, firm and possessive.

“I want the chance to own you. To make you mine in every way a man can. I’m a Master, Bluebell.

I live a life most people couldn’t understand.

Bondage. Discipline. Dominance. Submission.

I’ve had playthings. Toys that came and went.

But never a true submissive. Never a slave who was mine. I’ve never wanted one until now.”

My breath stuttered in my chest, my heart aching and terrified all at once. Ownership. The word settled heavy in my bones, terrifying and intoxicating in the same breath.

And even knowing what he was, knowing what his hands had done to others, some dark, broken part of me wanted to ask what it would feel like to be his completely.

“But I’m not submissive,” I blurted, my voice thinner than I wanted it to be. My hands trembled against his chest, and I hated that he could feel it. “So how would you… own me?”

Atticus’s chest shook with low laughter, a sound too rich, too dark, vibrating through his body into mine. God help me, my stomach clenched at the sound, and the ache between my thighs sharpened.

“Oh, Bluebell,” he murmured, his lips brushing the edge of my hair as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You may not be aware of it yet, but I’ve never met a more natural submissive.

It’s in the way you flinch but don’t run.

The way your breath stutters every time I tell you what to do.

The way you follow orders even when you hate yourself for it.

” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel, each word deliberate, owning me even as I tried to deny it.

“You were born for this, for me. And there’s nothing wrong with that. ”

My breath hitched, shame and heat tangling so tightly in my chest it felt like I couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t wrong. That’s what terrified me.

“I’ve known I was a Master since the first time I understood what sex was,” he continued, tone calm, clinical, like he was explaining a fact about the weather.

“I don’t just like control. I require it.

I crave the push and pull, the pain and pleasure, the way a sub gives everything and trusts me to decide what’s too much.

” His gaze dropped to mine, intense enough to make my heart stumble.

“Every time I thought I might want a bit more… I imagined what would happen if she stayed too long. If I got too close. And in my world, Bluebell…” He leaned in, brushing his mouth against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Closeness is dangerous. I don’t like close. ”

My pulse pounded loud enough to drown out my thoughts. “Because you’d kill her,” I whispered, the words tasting like iron.

He didn’t flinch. “Because I’d make her into art.”

My lungs locked. His honesty scraped raw against something in me that still wanted to believe he was bluffing, that all of this was a twisted game. But no—this was the truth. And the sickest part? My body leaned closer anyway, like I couldn’t decide whether to recoil or beg for more.

“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he said softly, fingers tightening around my hips, his control a weight I couldn’t escape. “I’m just asking for a chance to know you before you walk out of here.”

The words made my heart stumble. I wanted to scoff, to tell him that was insane, that he’d already taken too much from me. But there was a strange, desperate edge to his voice, something vulnerable I hadn’t expected.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” he added, a rough chuckle scraping his throat.

“Because I don’t like giving people choices.

Choices are messy. But…” He exhaled sharply, and for a flicker of a second, he looked almost human.

“When the snow lets up I will let you go, I’ll take you to town if that is what you want”

My head jerked up, blue eyes meeting his. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and wrong. He was offering me the one thing I’d begged for since I got here: a way out. And instead of relief, all I felt was a hollow ache.

He’d let me go. Just like that.

“Will you stay with me for a little while, even if we could get out sooner?” His voice was quiet but laced with an undercurrent of command, a warning that tore through me. “Give me a chance… or do you really want me to take you to fucking Marvin?”

I sucked in a breath, my mind screaming the obvious answer: Leave. Run. Get out while you still can.

But the thought of Marvin—his neat handwriting on paper I’d clutched late at night, promises that felt like hope—suddenly seemed pale compared to the storm I was sitting in now.

Marvin had been a fantasy. A maybe. And Atticus?

Atticus was real. A dangerous, bloodstained, terrifying reality that lit up something deep inside me I didn’t want to admit existed.

My lips parted, trembling, but what came out wasn’t certainty—it was a lie I hoped would sound like truth. “No… I won’t stay. I want to go.”

His breath hissed sharp through his teeth, his grip tightening on my waist, the muscle in his jaw flexing like he was holding something back.

“Please, Bluebell…” The word cracked from him like it had been dragged over glass, raw and desperate in a way that made my heart lurch.

I shook my head again, the motion jerky, unsteady.

This was the right choice. The only choice.

But then why did it feel like the worst decision I’d ever made?

Why did every cell in my body scream at me to lean in, to let him claim me, to stop pretending I didn’t want the danger and darkness only he could give me?