Page 38 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

Disgust and embarrassment overpower the high of my release, and nothing sinks me deeper into my shame than watching Ren stand and walk out of the room.

And I just lay there. Broken. Sticky. My cum soaking me.

A ruined canvas…still begging for the artist.

Chapter Twenty

Ren

Istorm out of the room, leaving him there broken and full of shame. Sex without control means nothing to me, so why am I reacting this way? My heart beats in my ears, and I can barely contain the shakes in my hand... the urge and hunger to consume it all. Running a hand over my head and pushing my hair back as I step outside and take a deep breath in. Trying to erase the smell of him, to regain the control I almost lost when I heard his words. I wanted him willing but not to use me, no—this is not how it works. I control the narrative... down to his submission.

I needed to get away, to remind him that this is not some fairytale where the villain gets redemption. That’s not why he’s here... not why I brought him here.

“Ren,” her voice pulls me into a trance as I look at the trees moving with the wind as a tear slides down my cheek, warming up the spot. “Do you love me?” she asks. But I can’t answer that. I never could. I’m not capable of loving, only consuming and controlling. She made sure of that. My hand moves to my chest, something inside hurts, and I yell.

“AHHHH,” I scream, breaking away from her touch, her memory, but I remain tethered to whatever he’s doing to me. Looking behind my shoulder, I expect him to come to me, to help me... he did this. He created this obsession... this sickness. Byron thinks I did something to him but it’s the opposite—it’s me being affected and I fucking hate it. Everything changed for me. I can no longer create, live freely, or wear the mask I had perfectly created for myself. Instead, I’m here—stuck in the middle of nowhere, not knowing what to do. I have never not known what to do. But what can I do wheneverything inside me feels foreign? It’s like a stranger has taken over my body and I’m just the passenger.

I laugh as tears slide down my face, my knees giving out, sinking me into the cool ground, and I’m laughing so hard that I can’t tell the difference between if I’m crying because I’m laughing so hard or if I’m just crying. because it’s a natural reaction to have when something inside you is breaking?

I take a deep breath in, bringing me back to center, back to who I need to be to survive. I stand, and storm back inside to do the only thing a man like Byron understands.

He still lays there pathetically, and I hate it, so I kick him right in his ribs, my foot landing hard on his side.

Byron doesn’t say anything, doesn’t scream, and doesn’t fight as I kick him over and over.

“Fight,” I say, kicking him again—but nothing. At this point I’m past talking, but I need him to understand. “You don’t get to ask me for anything,” I sneer, as I grab a fist of his short curls, my nails digginginto his scalp.

“You don’t make demands. I take. You obey.”

Smashing his head into the ground, “Whatever game you think you’re playing, quit it. Don’t think because I’m going through all this trouble that it’s because you mean something.” Bringing his face back up, I lean into him, making sure he can see my eyes. “You mean nothing. I just hate leaving things unfinished, Thorn,” I say before smashing his face in again and again. Until I see red, until his eyes roll back and he’s out like a light.

Letting go of his hair, I stand. Using my feet, I turn him over to see what damage I caused. His eyebrow was split from the impact and will probably need stitches but I don’t care. Fuck him for damning me, for ruining my life. If only he was like everyone else, I would have ended it a long time ago. But I know now how to end it.

End it all.

For a second, I lost who I am—distracted by all the inconveniences around me. But all it took was Byron begging me to make him forget. Begging me to make him feel. I didn’t need his terror. I wanted his submissionas partnership in my darkness. I didn’t need his light shining through my cracks. I needed to remind myself who I am.

And that’s fucking Ren Sato. Fugitive and all.

Stepping over Byron, I make my way to the bathroom. My mind automatically looks for her as I turn on the faucet. The water stings as it falls over my body. Her manicured hands wrap around my waist anchoring me to my reality. To my essence.

And for the first time... I welcome it.

Closing my eyes, I wash my hair while accepting her touch, accepting my depravity. Allowing her darkness to swallow me as deep as she swallows my cock. Once I’m done in the shower, I grab a towel, stepping over the glass that Byron bashed in earlier. I leave the bathroom, and step into the bedroom.

He still sleeps. His hands—bloody with pieces of glass sticking out from his knuckles, and a small puddle forms beneath the side of his face. Walking over to him, I crouch beside him and dip my fingers in thesmall puddle.

“To love is to consume, Byron,” I whisper, as I rub my index and thumb together, playing with his blood before bringing them to my lips and sucking my fingers clean.

He looks so beautifully broken. Byron is a mosaic of shattered pieces—rough around the edges, his own masterpiece built from pain and violence. I stand, walking over to my nightstand and pulling out my sketchbook. I sit back beside him. Using my fingers and his blood, I trace the man who did what not even my mother was able to do and that’s ruin me.

The sad thing is that he thinks he’s the only one being ruined, but I am too.

The portrait comes out messy, bloody, its lines rough much like Byron. Tossing the book to the side, I grab his hand and remove a piece of glass. Couldn’t have my creation dying of an infection—learned my lesson the first time. So I take care of him, not because I care, but because I need him alive. I’m not ready to end things yet, but we definitely need boundaries.

I laugh to myself as I push his small curls back, moving his head to face me, to look at his gash.

“Did you think I would kidnap you and love you?” The gash is deep, the flesh torn, but the bleeding is stopping which means it will heal with an ugly scar, but doesn’t really need stitches.

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