Page 29 of Painter's Obsession

Chapter Seventeen

Ren

Fuck, she shattered so beautifully....

I pull out of her, my dick slick with crimson, and waste no time. I stride to the canvas before the blood dries, gripping myself as though it’s a brush. With every stroke, I smear madness into being. Her blood, her anguish, her essence. Her sobs rise and fall behind me, a grotesque melody that soothes with every stroke of my cock. The rhythm calms me, grounds me, even as my mind begins to unravel.

Eyes closed, I let the memory engulf me—not a beautiful one, no. It never is.

“You’re the man of the house now,” she purrs, her voice slithering down my spine as her hand trails across my chest. Red nails, painted with the same fury as her lips, vanish beneath the waistband of my shorts. I want to scream, to push her away, but the scream never comes. I am paralyzed, staring ahead as she pulls me free, her breath warm against me.

“I need to teach you how to be a man.” Her words slither like smoke into my ears, curling around me, suffocating. As she straddles me and sinks onto me, her hips grind with slow deliberation, each roll punctuating her whispered promises. “A perfect man... a man with a good job, a bright future.”

Her voice is honeyed poison, and no matter how desperately I want to resist, my body betrays me. Arousal floods me, shame burns through me hotter than the fire pooling in my gut. I groan into her chest, tears carving rivers down my face. She smiles when I spill into her, her nails digging deep into my back as though to brand me.

Back in the present, I snap my eyes open, my grip tightening around myself. The blood smears beneath me, drying into clots as I press harder against the canvas. Each stroke of my flesh on fabric feels like release, yet nothing in me feels free.

Her sobs behind me grow fainter, and I paint faster, desperate to outrun the memory. But her words echo like a brand inside my skull.

“That’s it... my beautiful man.”

My pretty flower continues her song, her sobs twisting into the stillness of the room. I sit on the cold ground, facing her naked and crumpled form. Crimson stains the insides of her thighs, delicate trails marking where I might have been a little rough—but not enough to break her entirely. No, I’ve only just begun. By the time he finds her—and I have no doubt he will—she’ll be the perfect breadcrumb, a carefully crafted lure.

My Thorn will take the bait. He always does. The chase is what feeds him, just as it feeds me. Two predators circling the same prey, though his obsession has blinded him to the fact that he’s the one being hunted.

I sketch idly, dragging lines over her trembling frame as though carving her essence onto the page. My pencil hoversnear her chest when I ask, almost absentmindedly, “What’s your name?”

Her sobbing falters, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of defiance. “My...” Her voice is hoarse, raw from all her screaming. I tilt my head, waiting.

“You don’t deserve to know,” she spits, a faint fire glinting in her gaze.

I smile, slow and amused. I’ve always appreciated spunk. It will cost her later, but for tonight, I’ve taken enough. Enough to leave her shattered and pliable, though not entirely broken. Not yet. I glance at my sketch, then at her. “Kill me,” she whispers suddenly, her voice trembling.

I pause mid-stroke, pencil hovering over the curve of her breast. “Why would I do that?” I ask, genuine curiosity coloring my tone. “We had so much fun.”

She swallows hard, her hand trembling as it moves between her legs, clutching herself in some desperate attempt at comfort. “Please,” she begs, voice cracking.

I click my tongue, disappointed. “Tell you what,” I say, placing the sketchbook down beside me with deliberate care. “When I get what I want, I’ll give you what you want.”

Her head lifts slightly, her eyes filled with a flicker of hope—or perhaps just desperation—ready to give me anything for an end to her misery. I smirk, pinching my thumb and forefinger together. “I got a taste of what I needed tonight. Just a little.” My tone shifts, colder now, as I lean closer. “But what I truly want, you can’t give me. Not directly. You can lead him to me, though.”

“Who?” Her question cuts through the air, catching me off guard. It doesn’t irritate me; instead, it enlightens me.

“Byron,” I say softly, savoring the name. “My Thorn.”

She chuckles. A low, broken sound that grates against my nerves. The sharp pang of her defiance stirs something violentwithin me. My smile fades, replaced by a frown. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” she breathes, her body finally relaxing as if she’s found some final, bitter relief. “He won’t come for me. No one will. I guess neither of us will get what we want.”

She’s wrong. So deliciously wrong.

And I’m about to show her.

I walk out of the studio, naked, covered in her blood, my cum, and possibly some shit. I might’ve been too hard on her, might’ve crossed the line—but I hated being mocked. She was my prey… my canvas. For her to think she was nothing but flesh for me to use was absurd. Her punishment was fitting.

Now, because of this outburst, I need to speed things up. I have to lay a breadcrumb large enough for him to follow. But what?

As I trudge naked through the grass, my phone pings in my hand. A good morning message from Gabriela.

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