Page 5 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

The horses were already sweating by the time the sun cleared the ridge.

Flies hummed like static around their flanks, and the grass hissed when I brushed through it, dry from too many days without rain.

I liked the quiet out here. No screaming sirens.

No concrete pulsing beneath my feet. Just wind and dust and the honest weight of work.

I reached the pasture fence, tapped the old rusted latch with my boot, and watched it swing wide.

The gelding closest to me flicked an ear but didn’t lift his head.

Smart thing—he knew I wasn’t here to fuck with him.

Just needed to count them. Make sure everything was where it should be.

That’s the trick to peace, I’ve found. Knowing where everything is. Who’s where they belong.

I leaned against the fence post, pulled an apple from my back pocket, and took a bite. Juice ran down my wrist. I let it. Out here, there was no one to impress. No mirrors. No eyes. Except mine.

They always said my eyes were green like something alive.

Emeralds. Grass. Some other tired metaphor.

But out here, no one says anything. Out here, I’m just a man with a fence and a mouth full of apple and the kind of stillness that makes people nervous if they’re not used to it.

I didn’t come here to disappear. Not exactly.

I came because the city stopped being quiet enough for me to think.

People don’t notice you when you’re quiet, until you make them. I made too many people notice.

So I left. Built the cabin myself. Every board.

Every nail. My father would've called it obsessive.

I call it control. There's comfort in knowing a structure down to its bones. A redtail hawk cut across the sky overhead, screeching like it was chasing off ghosts. I smiled. There were no ghosts here. I’d made sure of that.

Back at the house, I had ribs slow-smoking in the pit and something half-finished drying on the worktable in the barn.

I’d get to that later. Right now, I wanted to breathe.

The world out here is honest. It doesn’t lie to you with glossy windows or polished shoes.

It’s dirt and blood and breath. It’s mine.

And today, it feels still enough to hold something new.

By the time I made it back to the house, the ribs had gone tender, smoke curling in lazy spirals from the chimney like it had nowhere better to be.

I opened the pit, flipped one of the bones with a gloved hand, and watched the meat separate like it was relieved to let go.

I liked that. The breaking apart of things.

The way heat or time or pressure always told the truth eventually.

Inside, the cabin held that golden-hour hush—shadows soft at the edges, wood floors still warm from sun.

I left my boots by the door, wiped my hands on a rag, and grabbed a beer from the fridge I’d stocked more out of habit than necessity.

I wasn’t much for drinking, but I liked the sound of the cap hitting the counter.

Reminded me there was something to take the edge off, if I ever wanted to.

Didn’t mean I ever did. I had other more important ways to divulge myself of the edge. I stood at the sink, watching the way dusk settled across the back field like a woman wrapping herself in silk. Slow. Unbothered.

That’s when I thought of her. The one I called when my hands itched too long without a body to tether them.

I didn’t know her last name. Didn’t care.

She liked it that way. She came when I said, left when I was done, and didn’t ask why I always locked the door after she walked in.

I picked up my phone, stared at her name. Just an initial.

L. Easy. But I didn’t hit the “text” button. Not yet. Instead, I walked to the back room. Past the shelves lined with old tools and bones I’d carved down to something that almost looked holy. Past the trapdoor beneath the rug. Past the quiet hum of things that weren’t quite dead.

I opened the drawer where I kept the letters.

Folded, organized. Nothing romantic. Not yet.

Just names. Ages. Bus routes. A system I’d paid to keep running.

One girl hadn’t made it. Changed her mind at the last second.

I never blamed them. That’s the trick with choice.

People think they have it until they don’t.

But the driver always remembered his job.

He owed me more than he wanted to admit.

Still, it had been a while since anything felt… ripe.

I tapped my fingers against the edge of the drawer and thought again about L. Her perfume always lingered. Fake vanilla and cheaper desperation. She wasn’t the kind you write about. But she’d do, if the blood got too loud. I shut the drawer.

***

The three sharp raps on the door echoed like a sinister symphony, a prelude to the night's dark dance.

Midnight, the witching hour, and she was always on time.

I could feel the anticipation coursing through my veins, knowing she was already undressing me with her imagination, her mind a whirl of forbidden desires.

I opened the door, and there she was, clad in a leather jacket that molded to her body like a second skin, paired with tight black jeans that left little to the imagination.

Her lips, a vivid, dangerous red, promised sin and surrender.

“Same rules?” she asked, her voice a low, throaty purr that sent a shiver down my spine. Her eyes locked onto the pulse in my throat, a silent promise of where she wanted to sink her teeth first.

“No speaking unless I ask a question,” I replied, the finality of my words echoed by the click of the lock behind her.

She nodded, a subtle movement that spoke volumes.

The way she handed over control, the unspoken agreement between us, was intoxicating.

Others came to me for pleasure. She came to me to lose herself completely.

She didn't flinch when I took her phone, didn't question the drawn blinds.

Her gaze, dark and unblinking, followed me across the room, tracking my hand as I pulled the heavy rope from the drawer—each movement a promise of a night she wouldn't forget.

I bound her wrists behind her back, tight enough to make her breath hitch, a sound that sent a wave of dark satisfaction through me.

“Pain or just control tonight?” I asked, my voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate the very air between us.

Her pupils dilated, swallowing the irises. “Both,” she rasped, the word barely a whisper, a plea for more.

I gripped her chin, forcing her to look into my eyes, and led her to the center of the room, pushing her down until she knelt before me.

Her eyes, wide and desperate, searched my face for a flicker of tenderness.

She wouldn't find it. Her ‘plea’ for tenderness was met with a smirk that held no warmth.

I was going to enjoy this. Enjoy pushing her to her limits and beyond.

My fingers traced the delicate line of her jaw, a contrast to the rough, almost violent way I intended to take her.

I wanted to hear her scream, to see the fear and excitement mix in her eyes as I showed her the true depth of my depravity.

I started with her jacket, slowly peeling it off her shoulders, feeling her shiver as the cool air hit her exposed skin. Her black lace bra barely contained her heaving breasts, and I could see her nipples hardening through the thin fabric. I leaned down, my breath hot on her ear.

“I know you think you want this.” I whispered.

I trailed my fingers down her spine, feeling her arch into my touch, an involuntary reaction to my dominance.

I unhooked her bra, the straps digging into her skin as I roughly pulled it off, letting it fall to the floor, forgotten.

Her jeans were next, and I could see the wet spot on her thigh-high stockings, a clear sign of her body's betrayal, her arousal evident despite her mind's protests.

I pushed her back onto the floor, her bound wrists digging into the small of her back, forcing her to arch her back and expose her completely to me.

I spread her legs wide, ignoring her muffled protests, and took in the sight before me.

She was mine to do with as I pleased, and I intended to take full advantage.

I wanted to hear her beg, to see the struggle in her eyes as she tried to reconcile her body's reactions to me, with what she thought good girls ought to be.

I lean down, my breath hot on her ear. “Shh,” I whisper, silencing her feeble attempts at resistance.

“You're mine tonight. Every inch of you belongs to me.” And with that, I set to work, exploring her body with a mix of roughness and precision, leaving her in no doubt as to who was in control.

I took my time, drinking in the sight of her, the way her chest heaved with anticipation, the way her hips lifted slightly, begging for my touch.

I started at her ankles, trailing my fingers up her calves, her thighs, before finally, slowly, dragging a single finger through her soaked folds.

She moaned, a low, guttural sound that sent a jolt of desire straight to my cock.

I circled her clit, feeling it throb under my touch, before plunging two fingers deep inside her.

She cried out, her back arching off the floor as I began to move my fingers in and out of her, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside.