Page 19 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

No. Not like that. I could feel the pulse low in my stomach, the uncomfortable ache starting to hum.

A slow slickness, embarrassing and involuntary, bloomed between my thighs—and I hated it.

Hated that I could feel anything around him other than fear or suspicion.

He was a stranger. A dangerous one. But my body didn’t seem to get the message.

It wasn’t like this had happened to me before, either. The few times I’d been turned on around real people, it had been because of some well-timed line in a good smutty book—not a man sitting across from me in flannel and menace.

Sex in real life had never felt like this.

It had never sparked. Just awkward moments, fumbled touches, and disappointment.

My first time was a quiet, silent letdown.

No fireworks. No angels singing. Just a guy who lasted less than three minutes and never once asked me if I’d finished.

I hadn’t. I never had. And yet… this stranger with snow in his hair and something dark in his voice made me feel things I couldn’t explain—things I didn’t want to feel.

I forced myself to snap out of it, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Like I said,” I replied coolly, “welcome everywhere except your bedroom and your precious little workshop. That’s fine by me.

Since those seem like the two places I’m most likely to run into you, I’ll just make an effort to avoid you entirely.

” His expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his smile.

“I don’t know how well that’s gonna work, little girl,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped and dangerous. “You’re in my house. If I want to find you—” his gaze dragged over me like a slow burn, “—I’ll find you.”

I swallowed hard.

“Like I said,” he went on, “you’re welcome in my room. Just not to go snooping. You’ve got a question? Ask me. Don’t go digging through my things looking for answers. That’s not how you build trust.”

“I’m not trying to build trust,” I snapped. “I’m trying to survive a few weeks in a strange house with a strange man so I can get back to the man I’m actually going to marry. ”

The words stung more than I meant them to. I shoved a chunk of potato into my mouth like it would soften the bite of my own voice. It didn’t. I almost choked from chewing too hard.

Atticus leaned back in his chair, completely unaffected. “You can yell at me all you want,” he drawled. “But I don’t intend to stay a stranger. And you’re not leaving here to marry anyone.”

He gestured lazily in my direction. “In fact, a piece of free advice for you: I fully intend for you not to leave at all.”

My fork clattered against the edge of my bowl. I could feel my jaw tightening again.

“You’re liable to chew straight through your lip if you keep grinding like that,” he added casually.

“I didn’t ask you,” I spat.

“Nope. That’s why it was free advice.”

“I didn’t ask for free advice either.”

“Exactly,” he said with a grin. “That’s why it was free. ”

God, he was infuriating.

“You can say I’m staying all you want. Doesn’t make it true. In a few weeks, when the snow melts, I’m leaving. And I’m going back to Marvin. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

And if you refuse? I’ll take your damn truck and go without you.

The thought curled behind my teeth like a secret victory.

But the moment I finished speaking, his expression changed.

That grin—the one that always looked a little too wolfish—spread wider, like I’d just said something very amusing to him.

“There’s nothing I can do to stop you?” he repeated slowly, savoring every syllable. “How sure are you of that, little girl?” His tone darkened. Smooth as honey. Thick with implication. And I realized too late: I’d just walked right into his game. Much like a fly responds to honey. I was trapped.

“Positive,” I said, injecting more confidence into my voice than I actually had. But the truth twisted low in my gut. If he didn’t want to take me, there was nothing I could do. Not really. I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have a phone. And the roads weren’t drivable yet. He was the only way out.

And somehow… that made something flutter beneath my skin.

It was wrong. All of this was wrong. But the hint of danger, the sharp edge of the unknown—it tugged at something buried so deep inside me I hadn’t even known it was there.

This man was pure sin. All muscle and shadows and carefully measured menace.

And the thought of touching him—of running my fingers along those thick, powerful thighs—sent a rush of heat straight through me.

No.

My thoughts were spiraling again, too fast and far too dark.

I didn’t even know this man. I’d spent the last twenty-four hours questioning whether he was a serial killer—and now here I was, picturing things I shouldn't be picturing.

Imagining myself kneeling at his feet like some broken little puppet, mouth open, waiting for— Stop it.

I clenched my jaw, furious with myself. Get it together, Gennie.

He’s probably an axe murderer. He lives alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no livestock, no real reason to be this far off-grid.

He makes “art,” whatever that means. And you’re sitting here making googly eyes like a fool with a death wish.

No. This wasn’t attraction. This was Stockholm-adjacent survival confusion.

I finished my dinner with as much dignity as I could muster, even though I could feel his eyes on me the entire time—those piercing, too-green eyes that made my skin feel tight. Once I’d set down my spoon, he stood, casually collecting the dishes and taking them to the sink.

Then he looked over his shoulder. “Come on.”

I blinked. “Come on for what? ”

I didn’t know what I thought he meant—just that whatever it was, I wasn’t about to follow him blindly into anything.

He smirked. “To talk. If we’re going to be here together, might be smart to have a conversation or two.”

He dropped into a huge leather chair like it was the throne he ruled from, and I… hesitated.

But I followed. Because I had to. Because I needed more information. More context. More control. I sat on the edge of the couch, careful not to relax too much.

“So?” I asked. “What’s the topic of conversation?”

He turned his head slowly, that same easy smile spreading across his face. It was infuriatingly self-assured. “Dangerous thing,” he said, “letting a man like me pick the topic.”

I gave a huff of disbelief. “Great. Well, let’s start there. Why do you keep calling me ‘girl’? Gennie girl. Little girl. I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman.”

He chuckled, voice low and unhurried. “It has nothing to do with your age. Or your status.”

“Then what , exactly?”

His gaze ran over me—slow, pointed, and completely unapologetic.

“It’s the innocence,” he said simply.

I nearly choked. “ Innocence? ” I definitely shrieked a little. It was insulting. Maddening. Wrong. But the worst part? A small, secret piece of me wanted to ask what exactly he thought made me innocent.

“You met a man through an ad. Talked to him for a bit via paper. Then hopped on a bus to marry him.” His voice dropped, eyes narrowing.

“And instead of a proposal, you ended up stranded in grandmother’s cabin, deep in the woods…

with the big bad wolf.” The way he said it—low and smooth, with just a trace of mockery—made my skin prickle.

I blinked at him. “Did you really just hit me with a Little Red Riding Hood reference?”

He gave a single nod, slow and deliberate.

“So, you’re the wolf,” I said. “Big teeth and all?”

The look he gave me wasn’t playful. Not really. It was… hungry. Eyes too green. Too bright. Like the kind of ocean you don’t swim in unless you’re ready to drown.

“All the better to eat you with, Gennie girl,” he murmured.

The words weren’t subtle. The way he looked at me wasn’t subtle either.

My breath snagged.

“Charming,” I said, trying to sound dry, unimpressed.

Like I hadn’t just felt something coil low in my stomach.

It was the lamp’s fault, I told myself. The way the light caught his hair—warm copper catching fire in the shadows.

The way the lines of his arms and shoulders flexed under his shirt, tattoos winding like stories I didn’t know how to read.

I shouldn’t be noticing things like that. And yet…

I dragged my eyes back up to his face.

His grin curved slow. Knowing. “You like what you see?”

I shook my head quickly, too quickly. “Just looking at your ink. Do they mean something?”

“Not really.” He leaned back, tossing his boots up on the table like he not only owned the place, but like he owned the world. “Some were done at important moments. But the designs themselves don’t mean anything.”

“Will you tell me about them?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He looked over at me, expression unreadable. “Maybe. Not tonight.”

A polite no. Or a challenge. Hard to tell with him. I let it go. For now.

“So…” I said, desperate to shift the air between us before it grew too thick to breathe. “What made you move all the way out here? South Dakota’s not exactly the center of the universe.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, tapping his thumb against the side of his chair like he was debating how much to say. “The snow,” he said finally.

I blinked. “Seriously?”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. I grew up in it. Real winters. Cold that gets inside your bones and makes you feel something. Then moved south for a bit, and winter just stopped meaning anything. I missed it.”

I let out a soft exhale. “I get that,” I murmured. “I always loved how it looked in the mornings, when the sun hits it just right. It sparkles, like everything’s been dusted in glitter.”

As soon as the word glitter left my mouth, I cringed. But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Instead, his eyes narrowed on me—less like he was amused and more like he was cataloging something.