Page 101 of The Art of Obsession

The strings lift me into the air, transforming me into something strange and ethereal. The hooks hurt, but the pain fades to the adrenaline rush, the endorphins spiraling through me. The reinforced skin holds, and the ribbons spiraling around me make me look like some kind of macabre angel.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored panels around the stage, I feel… awe. I’ve never looked like this before. Unreachable. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

Holy hell, Everleigh,Cherry’s voice echoes in my mind.You look like a damn goddess up there. A creepy, haunted one, but still. Props.

The audience is silent, their attention suffocating. My breath comes shallow and quick as Acheron guides me higher, my feet leaving the ground entirely. The ribbons cascade around me like ghostly tendrils.

I’m floating. Softly flying.

I hate him for this. I hate him for making me feel… seen.

But I can’t deny the artistry. The control.

Think about it this way, Cherry quips again.If you fall, at least you’ll look fabulous doing it.”

The rage simmers beneath the surface, a quiet rebellion I can’t act on. Not now. Not when he’s holding me like this, showing the world what he sees when he looks at me.

You’re like a macabre Barbie doll,Cherry croons, appearing in my side vision, my ever-helpful delusion.Or some twisted Christmas ornament. All you need now is some haunted nightmare house…or a creepy, little tree.

Even as his puppet, I’m something more. I should feel humiliated. Degraded.

But instead, I feel…powerful.

The hooks pull the base of my neck, bringing my head into a graceful bow.

I am weightless in his hands, a marionette brought to life.

He is careful, always careful. My pain is an art, his art…dangerous but not reckless.

He brings me back to the stage again. the strings go slack, but the haunting melody swells, leaving me breathless, confused.

I feel him, his presence, the scent of his dark, masculine musk drifting around me before he even touches me.

“Dance with me, Little Quill,” he commands.

Like a god of shadow and light, his presence magnetic and overwhelming, he sweeps me into a dance.

His hand presses firmly against the small of my back, just beneath the corset piercings, the other gripping mine as he leads me into the motion. The ribbons flutter with each step, catching the light like living flames. My body moves in perfect harmony with his, even as I fight the urge to resist.

The audience gasps as he twirls me, the ribbons trailing behind like threads of a spider’s web. The rhythm is intoxicating, his control absolute. He pulls me closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “For me.”

The rage simmers, but it’s drowned out by the raw energy between us. Each step is a battle, each spin a surrender.

Acheron leads me into a series of intricate twirls, guiding me as if I’m an extension of his own body. He spins me with a grace that feels mystical.

As the dance reaches its climax, he guides me into a final pose. My arms stretch upward, the ribbons like long, scarlet scars. He claims one side of my face and brings his lips to mine as a cascade of blood-red paint showers downupon us, splattering across our bodies and the stage in a macabre imitation of rain. He kisses me, capturing me with the crimson droplets streaking down my skin, painting a hauntingly beautiful picture of chaos and surrender.

The music ends, but the kiss doesn’t. The applause thunders.

For now, I let the sensations wash over me, the spotlight still burning on my skin. I’ll let them see me. Let them admire me. Because I am Acheron’s puppet. His and his alone.

My heart pounds with something dark and profound. Obsession. I belong to the God of Art. Utterly and irrevocably. Our connection is much like the strings, but ours are invisible, metaphysical. And they bind us together stronger than ever.

The applause fades.

I hate how I throb. He’s like some demon of hell needling under my skin and spreading heat into my blood. He’s infectious. And I’m drinking his poison. Sexual tension vibrates in the air between us.