Page 6 of Infinite Darkness (The Artmaker Trilogy #2)

The first scream split the air like a knife, sharp enough to make me drop the mug in my hand. Porcelain shattered against tile, coffee spreading in a thin, muddy arc across the floor.

I froze, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

It wasn’t the first scream I’d heard since coming here. But it was the first that sounded this close. Human. Ragged. Like terror had claws and it was dragging someone through the woods.

My gaze shot to the window above the sink. The glass reflected nothing but my own pale, wide-eyed face—yet out there, in the tree line where the world turned dark, Atticus was somewhere. Moving. Hunting. Creating. I couldn’t tell which.

Another scream echoed faintly on the wind before dying out, leaving only silence.

I pressed a shaking hand to my chest, like I could calm the riot my heart had become. But the weight inside me only grew heavier, pressing into my ribs, my throat, my thoughts. I should run. I should find his truck, hot-wire it if I had to, get as far away from this cabin as the snow would let me.

But all I could think about was the look on his face when he’d asked me to stay. Asked—not forced. As if I had a real choice. As if part of him actually cared what my answer would be.

And that made the guilt slice deeper. Because now, if I stayed, it was on me.

I stumbled to the table, needing a distraction, anything to keep my brain from spiraling into every blood-soaked truth about this place. My Kindle lay on top of the table where I’d laid it moments before, screen dark, silent, innocent. I snatched it up like a lifeline and flicked it awake.

The first title glaring back at me made my stomach knot. Love Me to Death. A serial killer romance. I didn’t even remember downloading it. The tagline bled into my brain like poison: He kills to feel alive. She loves him anyway.

I swallowed hard, thumb hovering before giving in and opening it.

Each sentence pulled me deeper, weaving fantasy and reality until I couldn’t tell which one I was living.

The book’s killer sounded like Atticus—cold and calculated, darkness wrapped in a man’s skin.

And the heroine? She wanted him anyway. Needed him the way I hated myself for needing Atticus.

Heat flushed through me, unwanted and undeniable. My thighs pressed together under the table as my breath came uneven. Shame burned hot behind my eyes. I should not feel this way. Not about a man who tied me up, took what he wanted, painted beauty from corpses. Not about a monster.

But I did. God help me, I did.

Another scream split the distance outside, louder this time. My stomach turned. I slammed the Kindle shut and clutched it to my chest like a shield.

Atticus Montgomery was a killer. The kind of nightmare I should have run from the second I saw his face. And yet… every time I thought of leaving, of Marvin’s neat little letters waiting in a drawer somewhere, it felt hollow. Wrong.

Because what I wanted now was twisted into the shape of a man with blood on his hands and my name on his tongue like a prayer he’d never let me take back.

The back door creaked open without warning, letting in a gust of cold air that bit at my bare ankles.

I jerked my head up, breath trapped in my chest.

Atticus filled the doorway, snow clinging to his boots, his coat darkened with melting ice. He moved like he owned the space, like every molecule of air in this cabin bent to his will just for the privilege of being near him.

But it wasn’t his size or presence that made my stomach clench—it was his eyes.

Green fire locked on me the second he stepped inside, taking in the scene: my white-knuckled grip on the Kindle, the shards of a broken mug still littering the floor, the tremble in my shoulders I hadn’t managed to hide.

He didn’t say a word. Just closed the door with quiet finality and shed his coat, hanging it on the hook like this was just another evening.

My pulse pounded in my ears, waiting for the sound of boots on tile, waiting for the weight of him crossing the room like a predator drawn to the scent of fear.

And then he was there, close enough that the chill of the outside air still clung to him, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. His presence was overwhelming, a mix of danger and desire that made my breath catch in my throat.

“What’s this, Bluebell?” His voice was low, smooth, but there was an edge to it—razor-sharp curiosity wrapped in velvet menace. His eyes bore into mine, searching for a reaction, a flicker of vulnerability.

I tried to hide the Kindle behind me, stupidly, like a child caught doing something forbidden. But his hand was faster, closing around my wrist with iron gentleness, pulling it free. He glanced at the screen, and when he saw the title, one dark brow arched slowly.

A smirk ghosted over his lips—not amusement, not really.

More like satisfaction. Like I’d just handed him proof of something he already knew.

“A little bedtime reading?” he asked, tilting his head, gaze flicking from the Kindle to my flushed face.

“Serial killer romance.” He drawled the words out, savoring them.

“Do you think about me when you read this shit, Bluebell? Does it make you wet to pretend you’re her? ”

My breath hitched, heat crawling up my neck like a brand I couldn’t scrub off. “It’s just a book,” I managed, voice rough, but my body betrayed me, my nipples hardening beneath my shirt, my thighs clenching.

His fingers tightened around my wrist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who owned the space between us.

“No,” he said softly, dangerously. “It’s not just a book.

It’s a mirror. You’re reading yourself onto these pages because you don’t know how to admit you want me to ruin you all over again. ”

I swallowed hard, the denial stuck like glass in my throat. My heart raced, a mix of fear and anticipation pounding in my chest.

He stepped closer, the scent of snow and something darker wrapping around me until the kitchen walls felt too small. His free hand rose, brushing a damp strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture far too tender for the predator in his eyes.

“You can lie to me if you want,” he murmured, voice low enough to sink straight into my bones. “But don’t ever lie to yourself, Gennie. That’s the one thing I can’t stand.”

Another scream echoed faintly in the distance, a chilling reminder of exactly what kind of man stood inches from me. But even as fear clawed at my ribs, something far more dangerous pulsed low in my stomach, a need I couldn’t kill no matter how hard I tried.

And from the way Atticus was looking at me—like I’d already given him the truth he wanted without saying a word—I knew he felt it too. His eyes darkened, his pupils dilating as he took in my flushed cheeks, my rapid breathing, the way my body leaned into his despite my mind’s protests.

His hand dropped from my wrist, but only to slide up my arm, the touch electric, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “You know what I want, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. “I want to hear you beg for it.”

I shook my head, trying to deny the words even as my body betrayed me. “I won’t,” I whispered, but my voice was weak, my resolve crumbling.

He leaned in, his breath hot on my ear. “Say it, Bluebell. Say ‘ Marvin’ if you really mean it. But I think we both know you won’t.” His lips brushed my earlobe, and I felt a jolt of pleasure mixed with fear.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sensations, but his hands were on me now, roaming over my body with a possessive hunger. He gripped my hips, pulling me against him, and I could feel his hardness, the proof of his desire. His fingers dug into my flesh, marking me, claiming me.

“Please stop Atticus” I whispered, but it was a plea, not a denial. His name on my lips was like a prayer, a plea for mercy, but I knew he wouldn’t grant it.

“Not until you say it, Gennie,” he murmured, his hands moving to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt.

I gasped, arching into his touch, hating myself for the reaction but unable to stop it.

My nipples hardened, aching for more, and he pinched them, rolling them between his fingers, sending bolts of pleasure straight to my core.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “You want this as much as I do. You just don’t know how to admit it.”

His mouth found mine, his kiss bruising and demanding, his tongue invading, tasting, claiming.

I whimpered into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders, trying to push him away even as I pulled him closer.

His tongue explored my mouth, dueling with mine, and I could taste the hint of whiskey on his breath, the promise of something darker, more dangerous.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “Say it, Gennie. Beg me to make you my dirty little princess.”

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the words, but they were on the tip of my tongue, begging to be released. His hands were on my ass now, lifting me, pressing me against the counter, his hardness grinding against my core. I moaned, my head falling back, exposing my throat to him.

He nipped at my skin, his teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh, and I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Atticus, please st—,” I begged, but it was a plea for more, not less.

He lifted me higher, settling me on the counter, his hands rough as they yanked my pants down, his fingers digging into my thighs as he spread them wide.

I could feel the cool air on my exposed flesh, and I shivered, a mix of anticipation and fear coursing through me.

My pussy was already slick, my juices coating my thighs, and he could see it, could smell it.

His eyes darkened, his breath coming faster as he took in the sight of me, naked and vulnerable before him.

He knelt before me, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs brushing over my clit, teasing, tormenting.

I moaned, my head falling back, my eyes squeezing shut.

“Stop,” I begged, but the words were lost in a gasp as his tongue replaced his thumbs, licking, tasting, devouring.

He sucked on my clit, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub, and I cried out, my hips bucking against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.

He groaned, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through me, and I could feel myself spiraling, my body on the edge of release.

He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, hitting that spot that made me see stars.

I screamed, my body convulsing, my orgasm crashing over me in waves of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

He pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. “If you really want it to stop just say it, my fucking hot Bluebell.” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Say ‘Marvin’ and I’ll stop.”

I opened my mouth, the word on the tip of my tongue, but it wouldn’t come out. I shook my head, a tear slipping down my cheek. “I can’t,” I whispered.

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, and he stood, his hands on my thighs, spreading me wider.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, and then he was inside me, filling me, stretching me, his hips moving with a ruthless rhythm.

His cock was thick and hard, hitting all the right spots, and I cried out, my head falling back, my body arching into his.

He gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, his pace relentless, his eyes locked on mine.

“Your fucking pussy is so hot I can't help but jerk my cock at night thinking about those screams of terror falling from your pretty little lips while your ass spasms around my thick cock,” he growled, his voice low and dirty, sending shivers down my spine.

His words were filthy, degrading, and they only served to heighten my arousal, my body clenching around him in response.

I gasped, my body tightening, my orgasm building, coiling, ready to explode. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “Come for me, Bluebell,” he growled. “Let me feel you come undone.”

And with those words, I shattered, my body convulsing, my scream echoing through the room, his name on my lips like a curse, a plea, a prayer.

He followed me over the edge, his body trembling, his grip on my hips bruising, his release hot and deep inside me.

I could feel his cock pulsing, his seed filling me, marking me as his.

He pulled out, his cock still hard, glistening with our combined juices.

He brought his fingers to my mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as he coated my lips with my own arousal.

“Suck,” he commanded, and I opened my mouth, taking his fingers in, tasting myself on him.

He groaned, his cock jerking as I swirled my tongue around his fingers, sucking them clean.

He started to stroke himself, his hand moving up and down his shaft, his eyes locked on my naked, panting body. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire. “So fucking beautiful, so fucking mine.”

I watched as he stroked himself, his hand moving faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

I could see the remnants of our releases beading dripping on the tip of his cock, and I licked my lips, wanting to taste him, to feel him come undone in my mouth.

But he had other plans. With a final stroke, he came, his seed spraying onto my stomach, marking me, claiming me.

We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies locked together, our breaths mingling, our hearts pounding in sync. And then he pulled back, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable.

“Remember, Gennie,” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous. “You wanted this. You begged for it. And now you’re mine, all over again.”

And with those words, he turned and walked away, leaving me shattered and breathless, my body aching, my heart pounding, my mind reeling, and the word ‘Marvin’ still unsaid.