Page 1 of Painter's Obsession

Prologue

Byron

Isprint down the empty morning street, my legs burning with every step as the sirens wail behind me. The pain in my shoulder—where the bullet tore through—feels distant, dulled by adrenaline. I can’t stop. Not now. Gabriela’s counting on me. She’s the only reason I do this, the only one who doesn’t deserve the mess I’ve made. My little sister. She needs a way out of this hellhole, and I’m going to give it to her, no matter the cost.

My boots splash through puddles left by last night’s rain, the cold seeping through the worn leather. Every pump of my legs feels like fire, but the image of her—free of this place, free of him—keeps me moving. Just a few more blocks. The trailer park is so close I can almost see it.

“Fuck,” I mutter through gritted teeth as the police sirens draw closer, the flashing lights catching in the edges of my vision. Having no other choice, I dart into the alley between the corner store and the laundromat, shoving past one of the many drugaddicts who haunt this street. He stumbles, cursing me, but I don’t look back.

The chain-link fence at the edge of the trailer park comes into view. I grit my teeth and push harder, vaulting over it as the patrol cars round the corner. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the sound of barking dogs and shouted threats. Just a few more steps. Just a little further, and I can hide the money for her.

But the blue and red lights flash again, brighter this time, cutting through the dark. My chest tightens as two patrol cars skid to a stop, blocking my path.

“No!” The word rips from my throat, raw with desperation.

The officers step out, guns drawn, their silhouettes dark against the strobing lights.

“Hands up, Lopez!” one of them shouts. It’s Armando. An old friend. Or he was, once. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Hands up where we can see them.”

I stop in my tracks, my breathing ragged. My nose flares, and my jaw tightens as anger surges through me. I want to run. I want to fight. But I know how this ends if I do. Cops nowadays are more trigger-happy than helpful, and a bullet in my back won’t help Gabriela. Slowly, I raise my hands and sink to my knees.

The sound of a door slamming cuts through the chaos.

“Fuck, Byron. What did you do now?”

Gabriela’s voice slices through me, sharp with disappointment.

“Ma’am, stand back!” the second officer barks.

“What did he do?” she demands again, her voice trembling as she steps closer.

I lift my head and meet her gaze. She looks just like our mom—same dark eyes, same stubborn tilt to her chin—but where Mom had been soft and warm, Gabriela is hard-edged, worn down byyears of surviving. Disappointment flickers across her face, and it hits me harder than the bullet in my shoulder.

“Gabby,” I try to say, but the words stick in my throat.

Our father stumbles out of the trailer, coughing up a fit as he calls her back. She hesitates, her hands clenching at her sides, before throwing them up in frustration and walking away. I want to yell for her to stop, to take the cash hidden in my pocket, but it’s too late. Involving her now would only make things worse.

Armando approaches, his expression hard as he cuffs me. The cold steel bites into my wrists as he mutters, “You better figure your shit out, Byron. Do better.”

He hauls me to my feet and leads me to the cruiser. I keep my head up, even as the weight of my failure settles like lead in my chest. Gabriela disappears into the trailer, our father pulling her inside, probably already calling me every name in the book.

“Maldito pendejo,” I imagine him saying. “Always getting into trouble. That’s no real man.”

He’s wrong. I know I’m no saint. But I’m doing this for her, for Gabriela. She’ll have a better life, even if I have to lose mine to make it happen.

The cuffs click tighter as I slide into the back seat, the sirens still echoing in my ears.

This is it. I’m gone for good this time. But at least she’ll have the money. At least she’ll have her key to freedom.

Chapter One

Ren

“Shh...” The familiar voice snakes through the air, thick with lust. Her red nails trace a path down my abs, leaving invisible marks I can feel. I don’t look down. I can’t. My eyes remain fixed on the image ahead—my favorite piece of art. The one I made with my blood.

Red swirls dance across the canvas, hypnotic and chaotic, like emotions I don’t understand. A walking contradiction—that’s what I am. Can you blame me? Not after this. I hiss, my breath sharp, as her tongue swirls around the tip of my cock.

“Good boys need teaching,” she whispers against my skin as she kisses my flesh. “Let me teach you how to be a man.” Her lessons were her touch, her teeth, her nails. And I always obeyed. “My beautiful boy,” she hums, nails digging into my skin, branding me, claiming me.

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