Page 13 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

And yet, I also want to tear it away, rip him apart, burn us both to the fucking ground.

“What?” I demand, voice hoarse.

Placing a hand on my thigh, his grip firm, possessive, final, he looks into my eyes. Sees me. Sees everything. Like he always has. Like he always will.

“Create something for me,” he murmurs, “and you can eat.”

“No.”

His fingers tighten around my thigh, the pressure unmistakable, his disapproval is like a brand on my skin. But I don’t care.

I’m not a killer. Not yet.

And that’s the sickness that separates us.

I might be a shadow. But Ren is a void. A black mass that consumes everything it touches.

“Fine,” he says as he pulls away his hand, his touch disappearing too fast, leaving behind a phantom warmth. My body already misses it, but I refuse to react. Refuse to show him what I crave. He turns to leave. A shadow pulling away, a presence leaving a void behind. But then, he turns.

“Choices have consequences, Byron. Always remember that.”

I do.

I open my mouth to speak, to snap something back, to push, to hold onto the only power I have left. But I don’t give him the satisfaction. He wantsto break me? Then he better fucking work for it. He wants me to give in? Then he’ll have to force it.

But I also can’t die. Because if I die, who will keep the monster from going after Gabriela? And just like that, the words are ready to spill, a surrender poised at the tip of my tongue. But then the sunlight stuns me—sharp and blinding, like a cruel joke. Before I can speak, before I can decide whether I want to stop him or let him leave, he’s gone.

And I’m left behind.

In the dark.

Once again, left with my dead.

I fall back, bones pressing into the cold ground, stomach twisting in on itself. The hunger pains dig their claws deeper. The ghosts press closer. And my mind continues to betray me.

Chapter Eight

Ren

Once I close the underground door to the bunker, I take a moment to compose myself. My breath is shallow, uneven, and fighting against the tightness in my chest. My hands run down my face as I take in air, but it’s not enough, it never fucking is. My heart beats loudly in my ear, a steady pounding that drowns out my thoughts, and fuels the fire burning in my gut. My stomach flutters, bile threatening to come out.

Fucking Thorn in my ass.

I give him choices. I try to be generous, to give him the illusion of control. I want him willing, I fucking needhim willing. But I guess I will have to force it. Make him see. Make him understand.

Fuck him!

He wants me to force him… he wants me to consume him.

So fine.

Ready, little piggy? Because here I fucking come.

Storming towards the house, heat coils around my spine, burning, suffocating, thick with the need to act. I grab the food I made him, my arm swiping the table set up for him and I. Dishes crash, silverware clatters, the scrape of ceramic against tile sends a jolt through my skull before my body slumps into the wall and slides down.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Her heels grow louder and louder. Rhythmic, deliberate, echoing in the hollow space inside my chest. My legs move toward me, curling up, and pulling me inward, small, contained, and wrapped up like I used to be.

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