Page 16 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

I stared at him, stunned. “Why would I care what you keep in your house?”

He shrugged, slow and smooth. “Maybe it’ll be your house too. That is… if you decide not to leave.”

My mouth went dry. “Why would I ever stay here?” Fear turned my stomach into a rolling pit of bile. What had I walked into?

He tilted his head again, as if I’d asked the wrong question. “You said you were lonely, didn’t you?”

I blinked. “Yes. That’s why I answered Marvin’s ad.”

The moment stretched thin. I could feel him watching me—not just my face, but the invisible parts too. My cracks. My soft spots. He wasn’t looking at me like a man looks at a stranger. He was studying me like I was a canvas. And I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be flattered or afraid.

“Do you love Marvin?” The question came out of nowhere—sharp, unexpected. Atticus grinned as he said it, that crooked smile sparking something wicked behind his eyes, like he already knew my answer.

I blinked at him. “Of course not. I’ve never even met him.”

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to explain, but I did. “I mean… I guess I feel kind of fondly toward him? I liked the letters. I liked the idea. But love is a strong word.”

I tilted my head. “Why does it matter?”

Atticus leaned back, all relaxed confidence. “Well, if it’s not love, and it’s just loneliness… I might know where you could find a man. Sexy. Serious about commitment.” He paused, eyes gleaming. “And not interested in turning you into art.”

My stomach twisted. “Your obsession with that word—‘art’—is terrifying.”

He smiled wider. “Aww. Thank you, Gennie girl.”

The words made me freeze. “What?”

“Thank you,” he repeated. “That was a very kind compliment.”

I stared at him, stunned. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Still. I appreciate it.”

I wanted to scream. “I’m not staying here. The second I can get out, I’m going to Marvin.” Heaven above, help me get away from this crazy man.

There was no wobble in my voice. I made sure of that. I wasn’t about to let him think I was a helpless, wandering girl with nowhere else to go. Some part of me thought maybe he might like that a little too much. I should’ve never told him I was lonely, what had I been thinking?

He nodded, all calm, like I’d just told him I didn’t want sugar in my tea. “Fair enough. But if you change your mind…” His voice dipped lower. “You just let me know.”

His eyes darkened, so much deeper than before—like water just before it swallows you. A jolt of hot panic flared in my chest. How dare he speak to me like I might ever want to stay here?

“I won’t,” I snapped. “I won’t change my mind.”

He clapped his hands together once, casual as anything. “Alrighty then. I’m heading out to the workshop. Feel free to watch TV, do laundry, nap, whatever makes you feel at home.”

Then he stood, pulled on his coat, and was gone—just like that.

A gust of cold air followed him in, then the door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.

I sat frozen. What just happened? It wasn’t just a case of being lost. Or snowed in.

Or dropped at the wrong ranch. This was the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong man . And I had no idea what to do.

Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them, soaking silently into the front of my shirt.

I wiped them away quickly, like someone might be watching.

He could be watching. I was alone. Trapped.

Powerless. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep into my bones, that if he wanted to kill me—no one would ever find me. No one would even know I was missing.

My eyes drifted back to the coffee table.

There was something draped across the wood—a piece of pale leather, smooth, pinkish.

Too smooth. My throat tightened. The more I looked at it, the more It looked like skin.

Human skin. Or, God help me, something designed to look exactly like it.

My stomach lurched. Acid crept up the back of my throat, hot and bitter.

I swallowed hard, forcing it down, shaking so badly I thought my bones might rattle loose from each other.

Atticus had called it art . I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. I bolted for the bathroom.

The second the door shut behind me, I braced my hands on the sink, lungs heaving, bile already climbing up my throat.

My stomach twisted with so much force it felt like it was trying to claw its way out.

Is that what he meant? Too pretty to make into art.

Not too human . Not too real . Just… too pretty .

Too pretty to become a lampshade? Or a skin-wrapped coffee table?

The thought struck like lightning—violent, absurd, and all too possible.

My mind fought it off with denial, the way someone might kick at a door in a fire, desperate to get out.

You’re spiraling. You’ve watched too many horror films. Read too many books.

Let your imagination win. He could’ve hurt you.

Last night. This morning. But he didn’t.

So stop. Breathe. Think. Get. A. Grip. I stared into the mirror. My reflection didn’t look like me anymore—too pale, too wide-eyed. My mouth moved like it was trying to say something to me, some mantra to bring me back. Right. When life throws you lemons, make lemonade.

Some ridiculous quote from a poster in a guidance counselor’s office.

But I clung to it like a lifeline. I splashed water on my face, grounding myself to the moment.

Cold, sharp. Real. Then I stepped out of the bathroom, legs shaky but functional, and made my way back to the bedroom.

I shut the door behind me. Bolted it. Only then did I really exhale.

The silence in the room felt thick. Like it was watching me. I lowered myself to the edge of the bed and pressed both hands to my knees, steadying myself. You’re okay. Just until the snow melts. Just until you can leave. Right. Make lemonade.

I nodded once, more for the act of it than the meaning, and reached for my sweatshirt.

The soft fleece brushed against my arms as I pulled it on, and for a brief second, it helped.

Not warmth exactly, but weight. Pressure.

Like armor for the skin. Maybe if I wrapped myself in comfort, I could buffer the edges of reality a little longer.