Page 21 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

The man I will destroy.

My gratitude will be the knife in his back, the very thing that will unmake him.

The knife that puts him out of his misery. Or maybe mine.

After a few minutes of pacing around the room, each step only feeding the restless energy clawing beneath my skin, frustration begins to boil to the surface just as Ren enters the room, smug as ever and naked with a black blindfold in hand. Of course, he’s enjoying this. Of course, he’s making a show of it.

“Ready for your first lesson?” It wasn’t a question, just another command, another moment of control he expects me to hand over. So I don’t answer, and despite the urge that I have to beat the shit out of him, to wipe that smug expression off his face, I’m too weak to overpower him in my current state. Or maybe that’s a lie I tell myself. Maybe it’s easier to pretend I have no choice than to admit something darker.

No, Byron. I dig my nails into my palm, grounding myself.

The truth is, I’m sure Ren isn’t working alone; his very presence is proof of that. He was injured and almost dead. He should be dead. So whoever helped him could be out there, and Gabriela could be in harm’s way. I can’t afford to make a mistake. The onlyway to win this game is with calculated movements and patience. No matter how much it burns inside me, no matter how much my skin crawls in his presence, I will endure.

I’ll endure it all for her... for the only person I can’t ruin, for the one piece of my life that still belongs to me.

So I turn around, allowing him to blindfold me. The fabric brushes over my skin, a soft contrast to the weight of what’s happening. Holding my hand, he walks me out of the room. His grip is firm but easy, like he expects me to follow. Like he knows I will.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the studio.”

My stomach drops at the nonchalance in his voice, and I know what my first lesson will be. The realization settles over me like ice, slow and numbing.

“For what?”

I ask even though I know the answer. I don’t need to hear it. I knew the moment he walked in here, the moment he brought up lessons. Ren is a killer, after all, a psychopath with a need to create.

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?”

He squeezes my hand, a warning disguised as a touch, “Byron. I told you we can create together. I have the perfect idea, and I need you.”

“Need me?”

“Yes. You’re the muse... to the art and everything in between.”

I laugh at that, but not a small chuckle—no, one that booms off the walls. Too loud, too sharp. A sound that doesn’t belong in this moment. Tears sting my eyes, and I’m glad that he can’t see the emotions behind the blindfold. Glad he can’t see how much his words burrow under my skin.

Unlike Ren, I have emotions, and as complicated as they are, I wouldn’t be me without them. Wouldn’t be the same person who loves, who protects, who still clings to something human inside me.

That’s where we are different.

And I wasn’t akiller. Not yet.

A fighter, yes. But a killer? Maybe. If you push me. If you force it on me.

But killer or not, I needed to become whatever I needed to for Gabriela’s sake, even if it meant becoming something I’d never recognize again.

Even if I have to destroy myself in the process.

We don’t walk far, which means his studio is inside the cabin. The smell of iron and urine hangs in the air, sickening and intoxicating. Each step forward only makes the stench thicker, coating my throat, clinging to my skin like something I’ll never be able to wash off. My mind drifts to Theresita lying lifeless on the ground as he beat her over and over until her head was nothing but a bloody pulp. The sound still echoes somewhere in my skull, a sickening, wet crunch that refuses to fade.

“You see, Byron, in order to create you need to learn two things—patience and determination.” His voice is light, amused, like he’s teaching a child how to paint, not how to carve people into his twisted idea of art. I can hear him push something and then his hand wrapsaround mine. Too soft, too careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“Patience is needed to visualize the recreation, to bring your vision into fruition, and determination is needed to see it through.” He chuckles as he slaps my arm. The contact is jarring, too casual, like he doesn’t see the horror sitting in my throat.

“Sit,” he says as he helps me to the ground. The ground is sticky. The smell of blood clings in the air and now to my skin. It seeps into me, into every pore, like it’s making a home inside me. I don’t have to remove the blindfold to know I’m sitting in blood right now, but I don’t react. I can’t.

This is all a test, and he can’t break me. I repeat it in my head, but the words feel thinner every time.

---