Reminder: In Chapter 3, Elif was forced by Arian to tap into her subconscious and draw the man haunting her dreams. The process was physically taxing, leading to a violent nosebleed that stained the canvas—a phenomenon Arian called the 'price' of her gift. Arian carried a collapsed Elif back to her room, his dark possessiveness growing as he realized the 'Sculptor'—the man who killed Elif's mother—is closer than ever. Elif now wakes up to a world where the lines between her savior and her captor are blurred.
The world felt like it was made of fractured glass—cold, sharp, and dangerously fragile.
When Elif finally opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the dark, heavy canopy of the four-poster bed. The room was bathed in a dim, amber glow from the fireplace, casting long, distorted shadows against the silk-covered walls. The scent of rain, expensive cedarwood, and that cloying crimson rose filled her senses, a constant, suffocating reminder that she was no longer in her own world. She was in his.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp wave of dizziness hit her, making the room spin. Her hand instinctively went to her nose, the memory of the warm, metallic drip of blood on the canvas still fresh in her mind. Her fingers felt cold, but her skin felt like it was humming with a strange, residual energy from the sketch.
"Don't move," a voice commanded from the shadows of the corner.
Elif stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. Arian was sitting in a velvet armchair, his long legs crossed, a glass of dark, amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms.
He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a predator taking a brief, restless pause in the middle of a hunt.
"How long was I out?" Elif whispered, her voice sounding like dry parchment.
"Twelve hours," Arian replied, his gaze never leaving her. He didn't blink. He just watched her, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of her chest as if he were measuring her soul. "The doctor said it was extreme mental and physiological exhaustion. Apparently, your 'gift' has a steep price, Elif. Your body can barely handle the weight of what your subconscious mind sees."
Elif looked away, her gaze landing on the crimson rose on her nightstand. It was still fresh, its petals vibrant and blood-red despite the oppressive gloom of the room. "You said you'd tell me the truth if I drew that man. I did it. I nearly bled out on your floor for it. Now, answer me. Who was he? Why did his face feel like death?"
Arian stood up, his presence immediately expanding to fill every corner of the room. He walked toward the bed with that slow, predatory grace that made Elif's heart hammer against her ribs—not out of affection, but out of a primal survival instinct.
He sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped significantly under his weight, forcing Elif to tilt toward him. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, the smell of aged scotch and cold rain emanating from him.
"The man in the silver mask is known as 'The Sculptor'," Arian said, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration. "He doesn't work for money, and he doesn't work for politics. He works for the art of pain. He has been a shadow following the Dorman family since my grandfather's time. He is a ghost, Elif. No cameras catch his face. No DNA is ever left behind. He only exists in the screams of his victims and the 'art' he leaves behind—bodies transformed into macabre statues."
Elif felt a bone-chilling shiver. "And my mother? Why would a... a monster like that care about a forensic artist? She was just trying to make a living."
Arian's gaze turned icy, his jaw tightening.
"Your mother wasn't just an artist, Elif. She was a seer for the highest bidder. She had the same gift you have, but she was more experienced. She saw something she wasn't supposed to see—a glimpse of the Sculptor's true identity during his most ambitious project. She tried to run. She tried to hide you in that godforsaken apartment."
He reached out, his thumb grazing Elif's lower lip. His touch was searing, a sharp contrast to the coldness of the room. "But no one hides from the Sculptor. The fire that killed her wasn't an accident. It wasn't a gas leak. It was his signature. He leaves nothing but ash and the memory of fire."
"Then why am I alive?" Elif demanded, her eyes filling with hot tears of rage and confusion. "If he kills everyone who sees him, why did he leave a six-year-old girl in that burning house?"
Arian's grip on her chin tightened, just enough to be possessive, a silent reminder of his strength. "He didn't leave you. I dragged you out. I was sixteen, and I had been tracking his movements through my father's files for months. I arrived too late for your mother—the house was already an inferno—but I wasn't going to let him take you too. I saw him standing across the street, watching the flames. He saw me save you. And he's been waiting for the right moment to finish what he started ever since."
The revelation hit Elif like a physical blow to the chest. Her entire life—her very survival—was tied to this man. The man she feared, the man who had abducted her and held her in this gilded cage, was the same person who had breathed life back into her lungs when she was surrounded by smoke and death.
"You've been watching me all this time," she breathed, the realization dawning on her with terrifying clarity. "Every school I went to, every job I took at the precinct, every apartment I rented... you were there, weren't you?"
"I am always there," Arian whispered, his dark obsession leaking into the tone of his voice. "I let you live your little life because I wanted you to believe you were safe.
I wanted you to grow into the woman you were meant to be. But the Sculptor has returned. He's active again, and he's looking for the one thing that can identify him before his final masterpiece. He's looking for the girl who sees dreams."
Elif pulled away from him, her mind spinning with a mix of gratitude and horror. "So this isn't just about 'protecting' me. You're using me as bait. You brought me here so he would come to you."
Arian stood up, his cold, professional mask sliding back into place as if he hadn't just admitted to stalking her for twenty years.
"I am using you to end a nightmare that has lasted two decades. In return, I am giving you the only thing that matters in this city: my protection. Within these walls, you are untouchable. Outside... you are already a ghost."
He walked toward the door but stopped, his hand on the heavy brass handle.
"Rest, Elif. You need your strength.
Tomorrow, you will start the second sketch. I need to see his eyes. The blood on the canvas yesterday told me his energy is close. Closer than even my security teams estimated."
"Arian, wait!"
He paused but didn't turn back, his silhouette casting a long, intimidating shadow across the floor.
"If I help you... if I draw him for you and you catch him... will you let me go? Will you give me my life back?"
Arian let out a short, dark laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering across a grave. He turned his head just enough for her to see the sharp, predatory glint in his eyes.
"Elif, you still don't understand the rules of this game," he said softly, his voice echoing in the large room. "The moment I pulled you from those flames, you stopped belonging to the world. You stopped being a free agent. You belonged to me then, and you belong to me now. You will never leave this manor. Not until the Sculptor is dead, or until the world burns around us again."
The door closed with a heavy, final thud. The lock clicked—a sharp, mechanical sound that felt like a nail being driven into a coffin.
Elif collapsed back onto the silk pillows, her breath coming in ragged hitches. She wasn't a guest. She wasn't just an artist helping a billionaire. She was the singular obsession of a man who played god with people's lives.
She looked at the crimson rose on the nightstand.
She reached out with a trembling hand and touched one of the petals. It felt like velvet—soft, beautiful, and deceptively strong. Just like Arian's grip on her life. She realized then that the fire hadn't ended twenty years ago. It was still burning. It was just trapped inside these walls.
Deep within the cold, marble corridors of Dorman Manor, the shadows seemed to whisper. The Sculptor was coming, and he was bringing the darkness of her past with him. And the only thing standing between her and the man who killed her mother was a man who had stolen her future.
She didn't know which predator was more dangerous: the one coming for her life, or the one who had already claimed her soul.
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Too Be Continued...
[If you're captivated by Elif's struggle and Arian's dark obsession, don't forget to add 'Vows of the Midnight Predator' to your Collection! Your Power Stones and comments help this dark tale reach more readers. The hunt has just begun!]