Page 17 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

The cabin was mine—every inch of it. I didn’t stumble across it, didn’t kill for it.

I built it. Board by board. Beam by beam.

From the concrete footers to the last pane of hand-blown glass in the back room window.

Not because I had to—but because I needed it to be mine.

Pure. Unsullied by any other man's hands or history. No fingerprints here but mine.

It stood three hours from the nearest town, surrounded by miles of indifferent pine and prairie, designed for the kind of privacy no nosy neighbor would ever interrupt.

I even engineered the land around it—rearranged small ridgelines, cut trails to confuse satellite detection, repurposed a dry creek into something else entirely. Something useful.

The winters were brutal, yes. But the snow made good insulation for the crawlspace.

And preservation was easier when the ground was already cold.

I’d left the city years ago. Too many clues.

Too many patterns. My art, as they called it, had gotten recognizable .

They’d started to see the meaning behind the pieces—the symmetry, the choices.

The deeper narrative beneath the flesh and pigment.

It was flattering, really. Even the feds had taken notice.

Gave me some asinine alias like “John Freeman.” As if I was some drifter, some wandering nobody.

They plastered it across their wanted lists with a composite sketch that looked like it was drawn by a blind chimp. But I wasn’t hiding. I was evolving.

They didn’t know about the eight pieces I left behind in the city.

And they’d never know about the twenty-seven buried in the fields behind my cabin.

Twenty-seven studies in form and silence.

I built this place with the knowledge that some canvases might one day scream.

They never did. I watched the coverage sometimes—late at night, with the fire low and the air still.

The reporters called me a ghost. A phantom.

They marveled at how I'd vanished so completely. What they didn’t understand was that I hadn’t disappeared at all.

I’d transformed. Out here, I could work. Not just create—refine. My medium required patience. There were rules to keep the rot at bay, to prepare the skin, to preserve the integrity of emotion in tissue. You couldn’t rush it. There’s a rhythm to breaking a human down the right way. A sequence.

Of course, I kept some pieces closer. A leather-bound journal, its cover unnaturally smooth.

A chandelier in one room was threaded with braids of human hair—red, black, blonde—looped like garland.

It creaked when the wind howled. Sometimes it whispered.

Or maybe that was just in my head. Either way, it calmed me. And then there was her.

This new girl… Gennie. She didn’t scream, didn’t fight like the others. There was steel under the softness, fear laced with curiosity. Like she wanted to understand me, or at least like she wasn’t scared of me. It fascinated me. Disturbed me.

She asked questions with her eyes, and every time I didn’t answer, it made her ask better ones. I could feel something crawling under my skin when she looked at me that way. Something ancient. Something mine .

She didn’t know it yet, but this place was already hers too.

I’d been changing the interior slowly. Removing sharp edges.

Leaving books I thought might provoke her.

Arranging the furniture for two instead of one.

She hadn’t noticed yet, but that was okay.

She would. They always did—eventually. I took a slow breath, letting the air freeze my lungs, ground me in the moment.

There was time. The storm would keep her here long enough.

Long enough to reshape her. To test her limits.

To unravel the morality she clung to like a threadbare quilt.

And when she broke— when , not if —I’d be there to pick up the pieces. And use them.

The round trip to town was a pain in the ass—six hours, easy—but necessary.

Inconvenient, sure. But it kept me safe.

Isolation was the best security system money—or blood—could buy.

I used to have more... options. Back in the city, if I needed to blow off steam, there were clubs.

Places where I could take a willing woman into a soundproof room and ruin her in ways she’d crave for weeks.

No need for pretense. Just ropes. Control. Sweat. Catharsis.

Out here, there was no such luxury. Just me and the walls I built.

L was my temporary fix. A three-hour drive from the next state, she'd come when I called, let me tie her down, bruise her just right, then disappear before sunrise. No strings, no questions. But even at her best, she never ignited that thing in me. That raw, burning thing I couldn’t name. And then came Gennie.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Just showed up on my porch like a gift I hadn’t earned.

Wind tearing at her hair, snow clinging to her lashes, and those impossibly blue eyes looking at me like she was praying I wouldn’t eat her alive.

I’d never forget it. That image was carved into the back of my skull.

I should’ve just let her go. Everything felt different from the moment I saw her.

Instead, I’m here… thinking about the curve of her mouth when she lies, the flush that creeps up her neck when I get too close.

She doesn’t know what a Dominant is—hell, she probably blushes during sex ed videos.

But there’s something about the way she flinches , the way she holds her breath when she’s near me.

It sets me on fire. She thinks she’s running to Marvin.

Thinks that stupid cowboy will save her. Cute.

She doesn’t see it yet, but I’m already under her skin. She just needs a bit of time, and then she will feel the aching burn too. I don’t know what to do with the way I feel—obsessive, possessive. I usually only feel this way about my art, and the intensity of these feelings sets me on edge.

I could give her everything—worship her in all the ways that count and break her in all the ways that matter. I’ve never needed to turn anyone into art unless they made me, unless they fought me when the time came. But even then... I think I'd hesitate with her.

That’s the problem. She’s different. She’s the only girl I’ve ever wanted to keep whole—well, mostly whole.

I sat down at the desk I’d built with my own hands, the same hands I used to bind, brand, and bleed.

My fingers itched for action, for her. I needed a plan.

The storm wouldn’t last forever. When the snow melted, she’d try to run. I couldn’t let her.

She was lonely enough to marry a stranger off some ad from a newspaper.

That kind of need? That was gold. I could feed that, shape it, turn it toward me.

If she needed to be wanted, I’d make sure she never doubted how much I wanted her—how badly, how brutally.

I wanted to possess every inch of her, to own her mind, body, and soul.

She wasn’t leaving. No, she’d stay because I’d rebuild her.

Every word, every glance, every touch—I’d layer meaning into her bones until she couldn’t tell where she ended and I began.

She’d flinch at my footsteps and still crawl to me.

I’d destroy every lie she told herself about love and replace it with my own twisted version of devotion.

I’d make her mine in every fucking sense of the word.

A low groan tore from my throat as the pressure between my legs grew unbearable.

I pushed back from the desk, unzipping my jeans with slow, deliberate fingers.

My cock throbbed as I wrapped my hand around it, imagining her tied to my headboard, her wrists bound with my leather restraints, red lines kissing her skin where the leather bit into her flesh.

But that wasn’t all. I imagined the glint of my blade, the sharp sting of the cut, the slow trickle of blood as I traced patterns on her skin, marking her as mine forever.

Her breath would be shallow, her eyes glassy with a mix of need, terror, and pain. The perfect storm of emotions that I craved.

“Please, Atticus,” she’d whimper, her voice a desperate plea. “Please let me go.”

But she wouldn’t mean it. And I wouldn’t listen. I’d lean down, my breath hot on her ear, and whisper, “You want this, Gennie. You want me to take you, to own you, to make you mine forever. You want the pain, the pleasure, the chaos that only I can give you.”

I’d trail kisses down her neck, biting and sucking until I marked her, claimed her as mine.

My free hand would roam her body, squeezing, pinching, leaving bruises that would bloom like dark flowers on her pale skin.

I’d tease her, bring her to the edge of orgasm and then pull back, making her beg for release.

“I’ll never let you go, Gennie,” I’d growl, my voice a dangerous promise. “You’re mine now. Forever. Every scar, every cut, every mark on your body will be a testament to our love, to the darkness that binds us together.”

The thought of her struggling, of her trying to fight me even as her body responded to my touch, sent a wave of pure, unadulterated need coursing through me. I wanted to break her, to mold her into the perfect partner for my dark soul. And I would. No matter what it took.

I had a plan now, a purpose. And Gennie, with her trusting eyes and innocent heart, would be the center of it all.

I would make her love me, fear me, need me.

And in the end, she would be mine completely, a work of art that no one could ever take away, but I’d need to go about it smart. So, she thought it was her idea.

I smeared pre-cum across my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, my breath catching on the edge of a groan. Her voice echoed in my mind, trembling and soft— please, let me go… please let me go back to Marvin. I pictured her lips quivering, body taut with resistance... until it wasn't.

Until it trembled for me. She wouldn’t know which way was up by the time I was done.

I’d teach her how to unravel at my touch, how to ache for me even as her lips formed the word no.

She’d come for me, again and again, her thighs slick, her cries turning from protest into pleas— please, Master, more.

That was the real her. Buried. Dormant. Waiting for someone like me to dig it out.

Thick, hot ribbons spilled across my thighs as I growled through clenched teeth. The aftermath was sharp. Hollow. I grabbed a tissue from the corner of my desk and wiped myself clean, the act more clinical than remorseful.

I had to play the long game, build trust, cloak the predator in warmth.

If she didn’t have dark desires buried somewhere in that beautiful head, I’d plant them myself.

I debated going inside, just to get another look at her, maybe brush her with one of those accidental touches she blushed over.

But no—better to stay patient. Better to plot.

If I moved too soon, I might startle her.

And I wasn’t ready to break the spell yet.

The lock on her door? Decorative at best. I'd designed it that way. This house was mine, every inch of it. Built by my hands. Reinforced with precision. I’d stripped the guest room of anything that could be used against me—the windows sealed, the hinges custom.

No drawer handles. No scissors. No matches. Bare bones.

Only what I wanted her to have. The rest of the house was my sanctuary.

Leather straps, preserved skins, and the stretched hides of those who came before her adorned the walls—transformed by my blade, my vision, into masterpieces.

My kingdom of cruelty. My cathedral. And Gennie. .. she'd be the crown jewel.

I’d test her tonight. See how close I could get before she squirmed.

I’d butter her up over supper, let her feel safe, warm, even seen.

Then I’d strike. Not hard. Just enough to shake her cage.

The black mamba. Coiled. Patient. Lethal.

Until then, there was work to be done. I picked up my blade—its handle worn smooth from years of devotion—and returned to scraping the new hide on my table. Fresh. Soft. Feminine.

I smiled as I imagined Gennie kneeling at my feet, eyes wet, lips parted in confusion and need.

I'd make her my naughty little princess. Slowly. Methodically. Completely. And when I broke her? It would be art. My fingers flexed around the blade. My chest rose with anticipation. Soon. She’ll be mine. And she’ll beg for it.