Page 26 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

Was it real? Or am I losing my mind along with my body and my morals... my dignity?

“Don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” he teases from behind me.

I shrug him off and fall on my back, my limbs heavy, my breath shallow. The room looks back to normal, all clean and pristine. Except for the pile of puke beside me, and the red that still stains my hand, drying in the creases of my fingers and under my nails, refusing to be forgotten. Ren stands above me, one foot on each side of my face, his weight pressing down, making his presence impossible to ignore. “It’s getting dark out, and it’s almost time for dinner.”

I scoff.

Does he think I care?

“Go eat,” is all I say, causing Ren to laugh while pushing his onyx strands behind his ear, his movements slow, deliberate, knowing. His hair is longer... and he’s much leaner, but still so effortlessly handsome and put together, like he was sculpted for this moment, for this world.

He’s all dressed up now wearing a black turtleneck, black pants that fit him like a glove, and some black loafers that are now pressed into my throat, firm and unwavering.

Still expensive... still charming... still lethal and depraved.

“You will join me. I have a surprise for you.”

“I don—“ I try to choke out as his foot presses deeper into my throat, cutting off my words, cutting off my air.

“It was not a choice,” he presses deeper, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Not a request.”

Maybe I should let it all end here. If I die, maybe, just maybe, he will be too disappointed to go after Gabby. If her big brother was so breakable, what would be the fun in tearing her down? Then his phone rings, the sound slicing through the air like a blade, and he releases his hold on my throat as he steps back, answering the call with a menacing smile on his face.

Pressing a finger to his lips, “behave,” he says as he slides to answer the call, his voice is light and amused, just another game to him.

And the sound of my sister’s voice freezes me.

“Kevin, stop,” she muses, breathless.

“Fu—“ she moans. “Kevin.” She continues to call out to him as he fucks her into the mouth of a wolf.

Chapter Fourteen

Ren

I’ve never been so addicted to a feeling than when watching a grown ass man with muscles, scars, and trauma bend to the sound of a woman’s voice. Maybe this is why I’m so fascinated with my Thorn. I guess, in a way, we were both prisoners to a woman, though his might not have been as sick and twisted as mine. But it’s prison—what else would you call the look in his eyes, how immediately his defiance left the building the moment her voice sounded through the phone? No fight. No catatonic state. Only one thing. Protection.

Even in his circumstances, Byron fights to protect the one thing he holds dear. I still don’t get it. How cansomeone have so much effect on another? I cut down my sickness. Could he do the same? Would he be capable of turning off his light and freeing himself from the shackles that bind him to his prison? I doubt it, but I would love to test the theory. How far can I push him? To me, love is sickness, and I prefer the cure... and I’ll show him the recipe.

Gabriela moans, and the sound of skin slapping interrupts my thoughts. I see the anger he hides from me, but there’s no hiding from a mirror. I’m a reflection of all he could be if he would just step into the void, but it’s okay—I’m here to guide him. My greatest masterpiece.

Walking towards him, I circle him like prey, not that I view him that way. No, Byron isn’t prey... he’s a predator. He just needs a little push... the right determination.

With a smile, I crouch behind him, and using my free hand, I grab his neck and pull him towards me. My nose trails up his thick neck as I press the phone to his ear, letting him hear my control. My reach.

I let him understand the threats behind his sister’s moans. The last canvas was a decoy, a simple test of whatI can do and will do. And Byron understands. His neck straightens, and I can feel the clench of his jaw, so I end the call.

“Do you understand?” I whisper against his skin.

He nods, but it’s forceful, full of anger, and I smile, pulling away and standing.

“You’re naked and bloody, so a shower and then food. Let’s go.”

Begrudgingly, he stands and follows my instructions like a good boy. He’s my puppet, and I pull the strings.

“Bathroom first,” I say, grabbing him and bringing him into the master room—my room. It’s not the luxuries I’m accustomed to, but it’s cozy, clean, and dare I say, homey. Byron steps into the bathroom and then into the shower. The water cascades down his body, crimson blending with the water rivulets falling from his inked skin.

My hands twitch, my dick aches, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I should be moving. I should be talking. But instead, I just stand therelike a creep, watching as he washes his body, as if there’s some thrill in restraint. Maybe there is.

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