Strokes

He told me I was his muse. He lied.Anton Sachov—painter, recluse, predator.He only sees in black and white. But he wants to capture the colour in me.The green of my eyes.The deep mahogany of my hair.The creamy white of my skin.The crimson red of my blood.Even the shadows buried inside my soul.And to possess them all... he'll do the unthinkable.He'll lock me away.This isn't just an obsession; it's ...