Page 6 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

But I wanted more. I wanted to see her squirm, to hear her beg.

I pulled my fingers out and brought them to my mouth, licking her juices off them slowly, savoring her taste.

Her eyes followed my movement, her chest heaving with anticipation.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, sharp knife, the blade glinting in the dim light.

I traced the cool metal along her thigh, watching as goosebumps broke out across her skin.

I brought the knife to her pussy, slowly dragging the flat side of the blade through her folds, feeling her shudder with a mix of fear and excitement.

I could smell her arousal, could see her body trembling with need.

I leaned down, my breath hot on her ear.

“You shouldn’t trust me.” I whisper, and she winces in response, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and desire.

I pressed the tip of the knife gently against her clit, just enough to make her gasp, and then I began to move my fingers inside her again, slow and deep.

I could feel her body tensing, her breath coming in short gasps as I brought her to the edge of orgasm.

I could see the pleasure and pain mixing in her eyes, and it was intoxicating.

I increased the pressure of the knife slightly, enough to make her cry out, and then I let her fall over the edge, her body convulsing with her release.

But I wasn't done with her yet. I stood up, unbuckling my belt, and she watched, wide-eyed, as I slowly pulled it off, the leather hissing through the loops.

I folded it in half, the buckle digging into my palm, and brought it down across her thighs, hard enough to leave a mark.

She cried out, her body jerking from the impact, and I did it again, and again, each strike eliciting a cry of pleasure and pain from her lips.

Her pussy was glistening, her clit swollen and begging for more attention.

I dropped the belt and fell to my knees, burying my face between her legs.

I licked and sucked, my tongue circling her clit, my fingers plunging deep inside her.

She was a writhing, moaning mess beneath me, her body trembling with the effort of holding back her orgasm.

I could feel her tightening around me again, and this time, I let her go, my fingers and tongue working in tandem to push her over the edge once more.

As her body convulsed with her second orgasm, I stood up, unzipping my pants and pulling out my rock-hard cock.

I stroked myself once, twice, before positioning myself at her entrance and slamming home.

She cried out, her body stretching to accommodate me, and I began to move, my hips snapping against hers as I fucked her with wild abandon.

I reached down, gripping her throat again, squeezing gently as I pounded into her.

Her eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

I could feel her tighten around me, her body coiling once more, and this time, I let myself go with her, my cock pulsing as I filled her with my release.

I collapsed on top of her, our chests heaving in unison as we came down from our high.

I could feel her heart pounding against mine, her body slick with sweat.

I rolled off her, pulling her into my arms, and she snuggled against me, her breathing slowly returning to normal.

I ran my fingers through her hair, gripping it tightly and pulling her head back to expose her neck.

I leaned down and bit her, hard enough to leave a mark, to draw blood.

She gasped, her body arching into mine, and I could feel her pulse racing under my lips.

I licked the blood away, savoring the taste of her, and she shivered in my arms, her body responding to the dark, depraved act.

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

She blinked up at me, dazed. For a second, I could see the confusion working its way across her face—the kind that always came after. Like maybe she thought the ache between her legs meant something different this time. It didn’t.

“Don’t make me say it again,” I added, voice flat, fingers already reaching for the cigarette tucked behind the whiskey bottle on the side table.

She scrambled for her clothes, the silence between us now thick with shame.

I didn’t watch her dress. I didn’t need to.

I already knew what she looked like leaving.

The door slammed behind her, sharp and final.

I exhaled smoke and leaned back into the leather chair, watching the ceiling like it might answer a question I hadn’t asked out loud.

I didn’t fuck for comfort. I didn’t bite for connection.

I just liked the way people bled when they trusted you not to make them.

But tonight, it hadn’t helped. I still felt…

off. Unsatisfied. Like my skin was a size too small and my pulse wasn’t syncing right with the silence in this place.

I stood, the floor cool under my bare feet as I crossed to the cabinet in the corner.

Dust hadn’t settled on the oak yet—I cleaned it often.

Like an altar. The key around my neck slid against my chest as I leaned down and fit it into the old brass lock.

A perfect click. Smooth. Familiar. Not for pleasure. For clarity. For purpose.

The drawer groaned as I pulled it open. Manila folders, lined up like soldiers, edges worn, corners stained. Each one was a life. A habit. A string of vulnerabilities cataloged and alphabetized. My system was cleaner than any database. More intimate than fingerprints.

I slid out the one I’d marked in red ink.

Natalie. Waitress. Twenty-six. Brown hair—thin at the ends, dyed blonde, like she was always trying to outrun herself.

I’d watched her enough to know she used fake tan in the winter.

Bit her nails. Stole fries off plates when the cook wasn’t looking.

Pretty, in a tired, soft kind of way. A girl no one looked at twice unless she was laughing.

But I watched. I watched the way she walked home with her head down and her keys already laced between her fingers—like she thought that would help.

I watched how she never locked her front door until the third try.

How she sometimes cried in the breakroom bathroom between shifts and came out pretending her allergies were acting up.

Routine was her religion. And I’d made it mine, too.

Thursdays, early shift. Bus home by 3:40.

Always the third row, window seat. Always her left earbud in first. I could draw her life in the dark.

She wasn’t the first. She wouldn’t be the last. But she’d do.

I tapped the edge of the folder, watching the blood flake off my knuckle where it cracked earlier.

From what, I couldn’t remember. Biting down too hard?

Gripping something too long? I liked the pain.

Liked the reminder that I was still wearing this skin, even if it never quite fit.

This wasn’t obsession. Obsession was messy.

This was orchestration. Planning. Watching.

Controlling. A symphony of inevitability.

The next time the driver passed through South Haven, Natalie would be there.

Bags at her feet. Phone in her hand. Maybe she’d text a friend that she was heading to her sister’s for the weekend.

That she’d be back Monday. That she just needed a break.

She wouldn’t make it past Friday night. And the driver?

He wouldn’t ask questions. Not anymore. Not since last winter—when I showed him what happened to the last man who talked too much.

Sometimes loyalty grows best when it’s rooted in fear.

I slipped Natalie’s folder back into its place and shut the drawer gently, like tucking a child in for sleep.

Click. That sound, right there. Final. Absolute.

There was work to do. Tools to sharpen. A barn to clean out.

Bleach. Plastic wrap. Hooks. No one ever really notices when a girl like Natalie disappears.

The world just finds ways to explain it.

Maybe she ran. Maybe she overdosed. Maybe she finally cracked.

By the time anyone starts asking questions, I’ve already disassembled the story.

Rebuilt her into something new. And when I’m done? She’ll be beautiful.