Page 26 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

I loosened the belt from around Gennie’s wrists, slow and deliberate, watching as the red impressions in her skin came into focus.

Angry, tender lines marked where she'd struggled—like her body had fought what her mind hadn’t quite dared to reject.

She was unconscious now, her breaths soft and even. Vulnerable. Exposed. Perfect.

The welts would fade, but the image of her pulling against those restraints—fighting me and needing me in the same breath—would stay seared in my mind forever. I traced the inside of her wrist with my thumb, careful, reverent. She’d earned something gentler now.

There was salve in the bathroom. I'd use it later. Maybe. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe she needed to feel it tomorrow—needed the ache to remind her she belonged to someone now. To me .

I climbed over her carefully, the mattress dipping with my weight as I pulled the blanket up over her bare, marked body.

She looked so small like this. Fragile. I didn’t like that.

Not because it made me pity her—but because it made me want to keep her.

Like some wild thing I’d finally caught and caged.

I wrapped my arms around her and let my chest press into her back, needing her closer than was rational.

She didn’t stir. She trusted me enough to sleep in my arms. Or maybe she was just too exhausted to fight anymore. Either way, I won.

And it should have thrilled me more than it did.

I buried my nose in her hair and inhaled—vanilla and sweat and something feminine and quiet that had started to drown the noise in my head.

It disturbed me. Not because I didn’t like it.

But because I did. Because the craving for violence that usually pulsed through me like clockwork was suddenly tangled up in the need to soothe.

I should be in the basement. Creating. Hunting.

Carving meaning into bone. But instead, I was here.

Wrapped around her like a shield I didn’t even know I had.

This wasn’t aftercare. This was obsession.

And I had no fucking clue how far I’d go to keep her.

Sometimes the urge to create clawed at the inside of my skull like a beast locked in a cage.

It wasn’t just a compulsion. It was need .

The kind that vibrated in my bones, whispered behind my teeth, haunted my hands until they were slick with something warm and red.

That act of transformation—of turning destruction into beauty—had always been the only thing that made me feel real .

Until now. She shifted in her sleep, a soft, trusting sigh leaving her lips as her body instinctively curled into mine.

My little Bluebell. So soft, so small, she fit against me like she’d been made for this—made to be held by a monster.

Her breath fanned over my chest, each exhale a quiet permission.

As if she didn’t know what kind of man she was surrendering to. Or worse… maybe she did .

I watched the rise and fall of her ribs, measured it like I would the lines of a sculpture, the weight of bone beneath skin. She was still breathing. Still warm. Still mine.

And oh, the exquisite chaos I would make of her.

I’d break her carefully, precisely—like you’d crack glass to make a mosaic.

I’d pull her apart until she was trembling and obedient, desperate for the very hand that undid her.

She’d beg for mercy while secretly craving the next wave of pain.

I’d teach her to need it. Need me . The artist. The destroyer. Her god.

While I spilled blood elsewhere, she would wait.

Kept. Owned. She’d ache for my return while I carved beauty from rot and decay.

I’d bring her tokens. Trophies. Proof of what I was capable of.

She wouldn’t understand it—not fully—but she’d feel it.

Feel what it meant to be chosen. To be the one I didn’t kill. The one I kept sacred.

She wasn’t a means to an end. She was the shrine itself.

And it terrified me. No one had ever impacted me beyond the need to use them—fuck them, kill them, display them.

But Gennie… Gennie made me hesitate. She made me wonder what it might be like to come home to something warm instead of cold concrete and silence.

She made me consider not using the tools in the basement tonight.

That kind of weakness could undo everything I’d built.

I should’ve just drugged her. Taken what I wanted, left her pliant, blank. But the moment I saw how her eyes darkened under my voice—how her thighs pressed together when I called her little Bluebell —I knew I wouldn’t need force. She wanted this.

And I’d spend the rest of her life teaching her how deep that want could go.

I hadn’t expected her to want me. Not really.

Not like that—arching against me, soaking my cock, unraveling like her body was built for mine.

I didn’t know what fucked me harder: the way her lips trembled when she said no , or the way her cunt tightened like it was begging me to ignore it.

She was a contradiction wrapped in silk and sin, and I couldn’t get enough.

Her screams rang in my ears like music—raw, unscripted, broken.

A symphony of surrender. It didn’t matter how many times she told me to stop.

Her body spoke the truth. It craved the violation.

It savored the force. And I reveled in it, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from her until she was limp in my hands, trembling like a caught thing.

What kind of girl comes like that? What kind of girl looks her monster in the eyes and melts ?

Maybe I was luckier than I thought. Maybe she wasn’t just a stray that wandered into the wolf’s den—maybe she was meant for it.

Meant for me. A submissive soul wrapped in innocence, aching for someone to claim her.

And I would. I had . Even if she didn’t know it yet.

She didn’t say the safe word. Not when her voice cracked. Not when I shoved my cock in to the hilt. Not even when she clawed at the sheets, her body wracked with the kind of orgasm that bordered on pain. She gasped, she whimpered, she cried—but not once did she say Marvin .

She could’ve stopped me. She didn’t. And that— fuck —that made me harder than anything I’ve ever known.

She might not be a slave. Not yet. But she had the bones for it.

The instinct. That deep, twitching need to be owned.

To be ruled. And I’d be the one to mold her—bend her mind, reshape her will, carve my name into her obedience until she was the perfect, shivering version of submission I’d always fantasized about but never thought I’d earn.

Not someone like me. Not a killer. A liar.

A collector. But now? Now I could have that fantasy.

I could have her. Waiting for me. Wet for me.

Worshipping me like the sick god I’d become.

She didn’t know what I was—not really—but she had to suspect.

And still, she let me in. Let me touch her.

Ruin her. Fill her. Maybe she saw the beast and wanted it anyway.

I pulled her closer, my arms locking tight around her soft frame.

Mine. She was mine. She’d learn that in full soon enough.

My cock throbbed against the back of her thigh, still twitching with the need to take her again—but I wouldn’t.

Not tonight. She’d be sore. Torn. Bruised.

I needed her intact. For now. Later, I’d wreck her all over again.

I brushed her damp hair from her face, lips barely touching the shell of her ear as I whispered, low and reverent, “You’re the most precious thing I’ve ever touched, my little Bluebell.” I didn’t mean to say it.

But the truth leaked out anyway. I kissed her temple—soft, gentle, reverent.

Like she was holy. Like she hadn’t just let the devil inside her.

I tucked my head against her shoulder and closed my eyes, breathing her in.

For the first time in years, I drifted into sleep without the taste of blood in my mouth . Just her. Just us .