Page 152 of Twisted in Obsession

"Tit for tat," she says with a sadness in her tone.

"Fair enough," the voice says.

I continue to stare at my art piece, slowly coming together. My brush glides against the canvas with ease, depicting her body with perfection. Now that I have a clearer picture of her chest, they come out almost life-like when I'm working on them. The only aspect I can’t quite master is the curve in her breast. Every stroke I attempt, doesn’t come out right, and frustration mounts.

Once I'm satisfied with that part of it, I work further down, depicting her abdomen and belly button as they curve, arching her back into the body behind her.

Silence descends on us as I work. She doesn't ask another question. Her eyes glaze over, staring at the wall while I paint her beautiful imperfections, getting lost in her thoughts.

I cock my head, staring at the curve of her breast, trying again to paint it on the canvas. No matter what I do, I still can't get the shape of it right.

Without thinking, I run the brush across her breast, leaving a trail of peach-colored paint. She stiffens, eyes darting to me. But it doesn't stop me from continuing my strokes across her flesh, mapping out every inch of her.

Journey doesn't say a word as I continue to work on her, painting her in beautiful colors instead of painting my canvas.

Fuck it.

She is my canvas.

Without a word, my zone takes over, glazing over my eyes. My only focus is the painted woman in front of me.

“Shepp,” she whispers, a finger running down my face.

Journey's concerned expression comes back into view. Once blurry. Now in focus. Wrinkles etch into her forehead and her moss-green eyes look over my face.

My paint-stained fingers clasp her hand against my jaw.

She smiles softly. “I didn't mind the new paint job,” she mutters, gesturing to her chest highlighted in peach, red, blue, and purple.

My brows furrow, and my breath shudders. My mouth opens on instinct, ready to explain myself away. But I shake my head. No matter how hard I will it to come out. My voice remains hidden in a frozen block of ice.

With trembling fingers, I set my brushes and paints down, noting I'll clean them later. I bring my phone out and type out my message, a rage consuming me.

“He hurt you.” It's a statement. Not a question.

She pales slightly, looking down at the paints surrounding her scars, leading to the tattoo between her breasts.

“I don't call him a monster for nothing,” she says in a low voice.

“Never by name?”

She shakes her head. “No. If I give him a name inside my head, it makes him human. He's not human, Shepp. He's a fucking monster. A monster who…who…” She clamps her lips shut, releasing several heavy breaths.

“He doesn't deserve a name then.” My fingers trace the many scars on her body, looking like cuts from the sharp end of a knife. Some are barely visible like he did it with purpose so no one would question what she had been through.

They're everywhere.

Like she was tortured.

Rage boils through my veins. He's done enough to the people around him. That fucking bastard. He doesn't deserve to draw breath. Not while Journey is hurting so badly.

“My father cut out my tongue because I told on him.”

Journey stiffens as the words roll out of my phone.

“I'm assuming he was a monster too,” she questions.

“More than a monster. He was a demon.” I still recall the blackness in his eyes when he snuck into my room and touched me in places no father should.

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