Page 108 of The Art of Obsession

I’ve never cared for this kind of architecture—1815 Loyalist Colonialism, all symmetry and pretentious opulence. It’s impressive, but it feels like it’s trying too hard to belong in paradise.

Freedom looks like a postcard from paradisical hell,Cherry mutters.All that pink? It’s like someone’s Barbie dream house threw up.

Elliot steps beside me, buttoning his tailored suit.. “Welcome to your safe haven,” he says, gesturing toward the manor.

I stiffen. “Who owns this?”

“The man who helped me find you.” He smiles. “And rescue you.”

I follow him down the short path to the entrance, my shoes crunching against the gravel. The massive doors swing open, revealing a marble-floored foyer with sweeping staircases and a chandelier dripping with crystals.

And there he is.

I recognize him instantly—the possessive green eyes, the golden hair, the sharp cheekbones, the air of someone who knows exactly how much power he wields. Power that is second—maybe second, I shudder—I remember him from one of the last exhibits, the way he watched me, his gaze cutting throughthe crowd like an arrow. How his eyes flickered with a dark jealousy. I also remember how he regarded Acheron, my Cal, with disdain and contempt.

Dorian. Another world-famous stage artist but nothing like the God of Art.

My heart lurches because his eyes have an addition. The same crimson glint in the pupils as Cal’s.

My steps falter, and my stomach churns. “Elliot,” I say, my voice low, “why would you bring me here?”

Elliot hesitates, his expression tightening. “Dorian has the resources I don’t. I trust him to keep you safe. More than I could ever trust Acheron.”

The sinking feeling in my gut deepens.

Dorian steps forward, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Everleigh,” he says smoothly, his voice like velvet. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

I don’t return the sentiment. He participated. He watched me like all others did…but deeper, more intimate—in a way that sickens me.

I’d say ‘run,’ but where? Into the ocean? Maybe the sharks would be better company.Cherry’s wings shudder with her fear,mydeep-seated fear. Run, Evie, run.

“How can you possibly contend with him?” I challenge, my voice sharper than I intended. “Acheron won’t stop until he finds me. He’ll come for me.”

Dorian chuckles, the sound low and infuriatingly calm. He is Acheron’s antithesis. A white suit, crimson stripes. He doesn’t wear a mask. No, he’s tooprettyfor that. “The first thing I did,” he says, his tone laced with amusement, “was remove the tracker.”

My heart drops. Horror rips through me, sharp and cold. The tracker was my tether to him, a promise that he could find meno matter what. And the awareness that Dorian touched me…deepens the horror.

“You what?” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t answer, just gestures to a staircase. “You’ll find your room upstairs. I suggest you take some time to rest and freshen up. There’s a wardrobe with clothes that should suit you.”

How the hell does he know what suits me? I want to accuse him. I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but my body feels leaden. Instead, I climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

The room is beautiful, all whites and blues with floral patterns and oceanic accents. The wardrobe is filled with tropical dresses, light and airy, the kind of clothes someone on vacation would wear. I pick one—a floral sundress that fits perfectly—and change, but the fabric feels wrong against my skin.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the woman staring back at me feels like a stranger.

Oh, good,Cherry sneers.Now we’re dressed like a cruise ship guest. All we need is a piña colada and a straw hat.

I tug at the hem of the dress, trying to smooth it out.It’s just clothes. I should be grateful. I’m safe. I’m free.

Safe is boring,Cherry hisses, her wings flaring.You don’t belong here. You belong in the cold, dark beauty of his world, in places that smell of ink and age and mystery. You belong with him.

I shake my head, trying to dispel her voice, but the pain in my chest won’t go away. Because it’s not in my chest. It’s in my heart.

47

I’m coming for her