Page 51 of Painter's Obsession

Weak. Wilted. Almost too easy.

I could indulge in this, draw it out until she shatters completely. But there are more pressing matters to attend to. Without another word, I turn and walk back to the car, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As I start the engine, I catch her in the corner of my eye, still rooted in place, her cigarette forgotten, her lips slightly parted. I drive slowly, letting her feel the weight of my presence as I pass. When I’m close enough, I give her a small wave, my brightest, most practiced smile fixed firmly in place.

In the rearview mirror, she’s still standing there, unmoving, her discomfort blooming like a flower choking on its own roots. Another one for the garden. Another reminder that I hold the leash.Always.

Pulling into the diner, I slow down to take in the scene. Locals scatter across the parking lot, their faces drawn and weary, the weight of grief pressing down on their shoulders. White candles flicker in clusters along the base of the yellow brick building, wax dripping onto the asphalt in uneven rivulets. Pictures of the two women are posted everywhere—smiling, frozen in a time before their tragic ends. Families huddle together, their pain etched into every tear-streaked face.

It’s all too beautiful.

I didn’t anticipate my headless ballerina being discovered so quickly. I must’ve missed something—a birthmark, a tattoo, maybe a scar. Some clue that tied her to this sorrow-drenched crowd. But oh well. Creation always comes with risks.

I cut the engine, my gaze scanning the parking lot again. Then I see her.

Gabriela.

She’s comforting a grieving mother, her hand rubbing slow circles on the older woman’s back as the sobs shake her fragile frame. Gabriela is dressed in black, her slim figure outlined by a cardigan and jeans. Her long brown braid hangs over one shoulder, swaying gently with her movements. The golden hue of her skin catches the late afternoon light, warm and familiar even in the shadow of mourning.

The grieving mother—Mary Jane’s—has the same green eyes I saw in the courthouse. Those eyes, now brimming with tears, are dulled by despair.

It’s like a candy store, and my body responds accordingly.

The pain, the tears, the rawness of it all—it stirs something deep in me. My dick hardens, straining against my pants. So fucking hard that I can’t get out of the car. I almost smile as I reach down, cupping my bulge, savoring the heat pooling in my core.

Gabriela looks up, her brown eyes locking onto my car. Her expression shifts—confusion, recognition, and something else I can’t quite read flickers across her features. She whispers something to the blonde waitress standing nearby and then to Mary Jane’s mother.

Straightening, she smooths her cardigan, her movements precise and deliberate, before stepping away from the booth. She’s walking toward me now, her slim figure cutting through the waves of grief like a shadow moving through sunlight.

Oh boy.

Her expression is tight, guarded. Not happy—definitely not happy. Why wouldn’t she be?

My arousal begins to fade as I focus on her, trying to read her mood. She doesn’t look relieved, doesn’t look glad to see me. The thought twists in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. What’s wrong with her? Shouldn’t she feel safe? Protected? Loved?

Her pace slows as she nears my car. I stay seated, watching her carefully, noting the subtle tremble in her hands, the puffiness around her eyes. Grief clings to her like a second skin, and for a brief moment, I almost envy it. Grief has her wrapped in its grip. I want to be the one wrapping around her instead.

Gabriela reaches the window, her gaze searching mine. Her lips part slightly, as though the words are caught in her throat. She leans closer, her voice soft and raw when she finally speaks.

“Ren, what are you doing here?”

Her voice is soft, tired, like the weight of everything is too much for her to bear.

“I was worried about you. I called, you know.”

She nods, crossing her arms over her full breast. The motion presses her cardigan tighter against her, and for a second, I wonder if she’s trying to shield herself—from me, from the world, or both. “I know. I need time.”

I tilt my head to the side, confused. Is she dumping me? “Time?”

“Ren,” she begins, her voice so soft I can barely hear it over the beats of my heart. “Two of my friends died. I don’t know.” Her voice breaks, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away with the sleeve of her shirt, almost angrily, like she’s furious at herself for showing weakness. “I just need time alone.” Her arms go up in the air in a helpless gesture. “I can’t find my brother.”

The mention of Byron sends a jolt through me. The memory of him, chained and bloody, flashes in my mind like a hidden treasure.

Removing my seat belt, I do what any caring boyfriend would do at the sight of the woman he loves breaking down. Opening the door, I step out of the car and cup her face in my hand. Her skin is warm, damp from tears. “Tell me, what do you need?”

Gabriela’s lip quivers, and her breath hitches. “I’m scared.”

Fuck. The fear in her voice is enough to send shivers down my spine and a rush straight to my cock. Fear is so raw, so honest—it’s the most intimate thing anyone can give.

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