Page 28 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

The smell of coffee hit first—warm, bitter, familiar.

It drifted through the hall like nothing had happened.

Like it was any other morning. Like I hadn’t just spent the morning pinned under a man who broke in, broke me, and then curled around me like a goddamn safety blanket.

The bed was empty. The weight of him—gone.

I blinked at the ceiling, waiting for the rush of panic or shame to hit again.

But all I felt was numb. I sat up slowly, pressing a palm to my forehead.

My thighs ached. My mouth tasted sour. And my skin prickled with the ghost of hands that had no business feeling as gentle as they had after being anything but.

For a second, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

If maybe the lines between fantasy and memory had blurred so completely that I’d conjured the entire night in some kind of fever dream.

But when I stood, the dull, throbbing soreness between my legs told the truth.

And the faint outline of a bruise around my wrist sealed it.

I pulled on the robe that hung behind the door—thick, too-large, probably his—and followed the smell of coffee like I was following a lifeline. Or a noose.

He was in the kitchen, barefoot and humming something low and tuneless.

He moved like a man who’d never held anyone down.

Like he’d never heard someone gasp beneath him, or beg with their eyes when their mouth couldn’t form words.

He cracked eggs with one hand, flipped bacon with the other, and when he looked up at me? He smiled.

“Morning, Bluebell.” He said it like it was some lazy Sunday. Like we’d slept in and made love and now he was making me breakfast because he couldn’t wait to feed me. “You sleep okay?”

I didn’t answer. My voice hadn’t followed me from the bedroom. He took another mug from the cupboard, poured steaming black coffee into it, and slid it across the counter like we did this every day. Like this was routine.

“I made breakfast,” he added, nodding toward the stove. “Bacon’s crispy, just how I like it. You hungry?”

Hungry. The word hit like a slap. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I wasn’t ready to speak—not to him, not to this version of him that was acting like he hadn’t spent the night rewiring my body without my permission. The casual ease in his face made my stomach twist.

Was this it? Was he just going to pretend? Did he think I wanted this now? That I’d been broken in like a new horse and now I’d trot along behind him, grateful for his attention and his breakfast?

“Hey,” he said, rounding the counter. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

He touched my cheek with the back of his fingers—soft, almost reverent. It made me flinch. Just barely. But his eyes caught it. Something flickered there. Brief. A crack in the smooth performance. But it vanished before I could make sense of it.

“I’m fine,” I said, finally finding my voice.

He smiled again. Too easily.

“Good,” he said. “Then sit down. Eat something. We’ve got a big day.”

I sat down because I didn’t know what else to do.

The chair creaked beneath me. It felt too loud, like it had opinions about the night before. I tucked the robe tighter around myself and stared at the steam curling from the coffee cup. The smell alone made me nauseous. Or maybe that was just me.

Atticus moved around the kitchen like he belonged there.

Like I belonged there. Whistling softly under his breath.

Scooping eggs onto a chipped ceramic plate.

Pouring orange juice like he was in a commercial for Midwestern serenity.

His jeans rode low on his hips, his shirt clinging in the back from where it hadn’t fully dried.

His hair was still wet, curling at the ends.

He caught me looking. Grinned.

“Lucky me. You like to watch.”

I dropped my eyes to the table. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he said, amusement curling around the words. “But I don’t mind. I like being looked at. Especially by someone who knows how to appreciate what she’s seeing.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. My hands curled around the mug like it was the only thing anchoring me.

A plate landed in front of me. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Perfectly ordinary. Too ordinary. He sat across from me and dug in like we were husband and wife and this was a cabin honeymoon and not… whatever the hell this actually was.

The silence stretched as I forced down a bite of toast I couldn’t taste.

“After breakfast,” he said between mouthfuls, “I’ll take you out to see the dogs. Maybe the horses, too. If you’re up for it.”

“Why are you acting like nothing happened?” My voice came out small. Brittle.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Because, Bluebell, nothing bad happened.” He tilted his head, eyes steady. “You’re here. You’re safe. I made you breakfast. That’s a good morning where I come from.”

I stared at him. “You broke into my room.”

“You left the light on.” A shrug. “Felt like an invitation.”

“You had a key.”

“I have a key to every room. It’s my house.”

The words sat between us like poison. My stomach flipped. He reached out and brushed a crumb from my cheek. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

But I was. Not in the way I had been at first—sharp and immediate—but in a quieter, deeper way now.

The way you fear something that’s already under your skin.

Something you might miss if it left. I looked at him then— really looked—and I don’t know what came over me.

Maybe it was the helplessness, or the calm way he was dismantling my sense of reality.

Maybe it was the way my thighs still ached, and the way his voice made something in me clench even when I didn’t want it to.

But the word slipped out before I could catch it. Soft. Automatic.

“…Yes, Master.”

He froze.

The scrape of his fork against the plate stilled. His eyes met mine—green, unreadable.

A beat passed. Then another.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

Shame burned through me. I looked down at my lap, unable to answer.

He stood slowly, came around the table, and crouched beside me. His hand brushed mine. Gentle. Patient.

“You can say anything to me, my pretty little Bluebell.” His voice was velvet. “But if you call me that again, just know—” he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “—you’ll never get to take it back.”

I shivered.