Page 18 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

I woke with my sweatshirt tangled around my arms like restraints.

It twisted up under my chest, clinging to my skin with the subtle aggression of something that was supposed to comfort me—but mostly just felt suffocating.

I tugged it back into place and stared at the ceiling, blinking against the dim, unfamiliar light.

Great. Not even fully awake and I already felt like I was losing my mind.

Again. My entire life had become a contradiction.

Safe, but not. Sheltered, but entirely exposed.

And that man downstairs? That strange, magnetic, terrifying man?

He wasn’t helping. There was crazy. Then there was crazy psychotic.

And I was starting to worry I’d landed in the second category—eyes wide open, heart racing, pretending I wasn’t slowly unraveling at the edges.

Everything about Atticus felt like a trap designed by someone too smart for me to outthink.

Not outright violent. Not overtly cruel.

But something was… wrong. Off. Wrong in a way that felt intelligent.

Curated. Like walking into a beautifully decorated room and slowly realizing everything in it was made of bone.

Which I had actually done. That tension had started the moment I stepped through the front door. It hadn’t left me since.

Still, I was here, wasn’t I? Breathing. Free to move around—mostly. Not locked in a basement. Not tied to a chair. So why did my gut continue to scream that something wasn’t right?

I crossed to the window and peeked outside.

It was darker than I expected. The kind of thick, wintry dark that didn’t just sit over the land but pressed into it.

There was no sun to find. No warmth. No glow.

Just shadowed outlines of skeletal trees and a quiet that didn’t feel peaceful—it felt watchful.

I really wished I had a phone that worked out here.

My bars had been missing since I got on the bus.

I didn’t really want to call anyone. There was no one to call but Maddie, and hell she’d go even more crazy than I felt.

Nah, there was just something about the glow of a screen, the way it ticked time forward in neat, manageable numbers.

It would’ve been nice to know if it was five or six or maybe even later.

My stomach gave a low growl, and I realized with a bit of shock that I was starving.

I glanced at the door, then back toward the stairs.

Would he care if I made myself something to eat?

Would it piss him off? Or maybe—just maybe—it would make me seem more useful.

Like a guest. Not… whatever I actually was.

If I cooked for him too, maybe it would soften something in him.

Maybe it would keep me safe from whatever kind of notions he cooked up while he was out in his workshop, unease skittered across my spine.

It had been dark, and true – there was a blizzard but I hadn’t seen any other buildings when I came in. .

I padded down to the kitchen, quietly opening drawers and cabinets like I was searching through someone else’s memories.

I tried not to look too long at anything—afraid of what I’d find.

The pantry surprised me. It was full. Not just stocked, but curated.

Rows of jars, tins, and bulk goods. Flour.

Sugar. Dried beans. More than enough for one person.

Enough for two. Enough for ten. That should’ve made me feel comforted.

It didn’t. It felt… calculated. Like he’d planned for this.

For someone. For me? For someone he kidnapped?

I pushed the thought away, focusing on pulling together something edible. Soup. Maybe grilled cheese. Something easy. Familiar. Normal. That’s what I needed. Normal. I was allowing myself to get all hyped up over some unease, and anxiety. That’s all it was and I needed to get a grip.

But as I set the pot on the stove and reached for the butter, my thoughts drifted—uninvited and insistent—back to his bedroom.

That door had been locked tight earlier.

I hadn’t meant to open it, but I had. And what I saw on the walls had made my stomach drop and my thighs clench at the same time.

Straps. Hooks. Implements I couldn’t name but recognized from dark romance books I’d never dared admit to reading.

Books that had filled nights with quiet heat and impossible men who looked like monsters but touched like gods.

Was that what he was? A monster who knew how to touch ?

I swallowed thickly, my mouth suddenly dry.

I’d always wondered what it would feel like to live inside one of those stories.

I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Not quite fear.

Not quite arousal. Something in-between.

Something dangerous. Carnal, explosive, terrifying.

I flipped the batter too quickly, the bread tearing.

I muttered a curse and started another batch.

The last thing I wanted was to mess up his dinner.

Something told me Atticus wouldn’t be the kind of man who tolerated even small failures easily.

And yet… part of me was trying. Still. To impress him.

To please him. Like a rabbit pressing into the hand of the wolf that hadn’t bitten it yet.

What was wrong with me? I couldn’t wait for him to take me back to the bus depot. What if he refuses?

I kept cooking, but I couldn’t shake the thought.

He didn’t have to take me anywhere. There were no neighbors.

No one to report a missing girl. And judging by the supplies he’d stockpiled in the pantry, the man could live off-grid for months.

No trips to town. No witnesses. No chances.

If he decided I wasn’t leaving—then I wasn’t leaving.

Period. The thought coiled low in my stomach, sour and sharp. Maybe I could steal his truck.

The idea came half-joking, half-desperate.

Even if I tried, I’d have to wait for the snow to melt—unless I wanted to die in a ditch before I ever hit the highway.

I was trapped, and I knew it. I certainly didn’t know how to drive in the snow.

So I did the only thing I could think to do: I played nice.

Heap coals of fire on his head, my grandma would’ve said. “Be so kind it kills him.” Fine. I could do that. I pulled down a can of stewed beef, grabbed a couple potatoes, some carrots, an onion. That would be perfect to go with the handmade biscuits.

Stew. Hot, heavy, familiar. Something warm I could control.

That would be great, just what I needed.

I peeled and chopped and stirred and mixed, setting myself to the rhythm of survival.

Something about cooking steadied me. Made me feel like a person again instead of just a girl lost in a house full of secrets.

By the time I slid the biscuits into the oven, I was already washing up.

I needed the distraction. My mind kept drifting back to the things hanging on his walls.

The sound of the locked bedroom door clicking shut behind me.

The way my hands had trembled even when nothing was touching me.

Then I heard it. Heavy boots stomping on the porch.

The quick whoosh of the door swinging open.

The cold rushed in first, like the wind itself was warning me.

Atticus stepped inside, dusted in snow like he’d just returned from somewhere mythic and dangerous.

His coat was stiff, his cheeks red from the bite of wind, and those eyes—green and sharp—landed on me like I was exactly where he’d left me.

Exactly where I belonged. I gave him a nervous smile, trying not to look like I’d been imagining stealing his truck fifteen minutes ago.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made us something to eat.”

He chuckled, deep and warm. “Mind? Why would I mind? Smells like heaven in here, little girl.”

Little girl. The words hit low in my gut and stuck.

I didn’t know if it was a compliment or a warning.

Maybe both. I turned off the stove and grabbed the pot of stew, my fingers careful not to tremble.

“I hope you brought your appetite. It’s just stew and biscuits, but… I thought it might hit the spot.”

He took a seat, stretching out like a king returning from war. “Sounds great. Been a long time since anyone cooked for me. Feels real nice, comin’ in from the cold to find something hot waitin’ on me.” His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

I swallowed.

“I thought you said you didn’t cook much,” he added, teasing.

“Well…” I shrugged, ladling the stew into bowls. “There are two of us now. It made sense. You cooked this morning, so I figured it was my turn.”

“Fair enough,” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “I like how you think. If we take turns with the chores, it frees up time for other projects.”

I hesitated. “What kind of projects?”

He paused mid-bite. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the wood stove.

“Oh, my art. Got a workshop out back. That’s where I keep it all. Steer clear of that building, alright?”

My stomach dipped.

“Got it,” I said quietly. “Private property.”

He grinned—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All this is private property, little girl. But you’re welcome everywhere… except the workshop.”

“And your bedroom,” I added before I could stop myself, trying to sound bold instead of terrified.

His eyes darkened, that grin deepening like a wolf who’d just heard his prey laugh. “You’re welcome in my bedroom too,” he said smoothly, “just not as a spy.” The look he gave me was molten—heated, focused, and far too knowing. And worse? My body responded to it.