Page 52 of Painter's Obsession

“I’m here to protect you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against hers.

“I need my brother,” she sobs, her voice breaking into pieces as I pull away and bring her into my chest. Her tears soakthrough my shirt, hot and heavy, and I pray she doesn’t feel the hardness between my legs.

“I’m here,” I whisper, running my hand slowly down her back, my touch soft, deliberate. She fits so perfectly in my arms. But she’s not the one I want.

Abruptly, she pulls away, her hands falling to her sides as she steps back. “Ren, please. I’m sorry. I just need time.”

I nod, my smile faint, measured. “Of course,” I murmur, watching as she slips away, turning her back on me. Leaving me.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Time? She thinks time will save her. Time doesn’t save anyone. I make the rules, not time. Not her.

The sound of a door creaking open pulls my attention. The blonde waitress steps outside, a cigarette in hand, her face smeared with tears. Her hands tremble slightly as she lights it, the flame catching on the first try.

I let out a breath, forcing my body to relax, before walking toward her. Nothing weird, nothing out of place. Just another man having a conversation. “You have another of those?” I ask, pointing at her cigarette.

She glances at me, her red-rimmed eyes dull, empty. Without a word, she pulls a pack from her apron and offers it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling a cigarette from the box and placing it between my lips. She lights it with a blue lighter, her hand steady this time.

I inhale the minty smoke, letting it curl through my chest before exhaling slowly. “How well do you know Gabby?”

She tilts her head slightly, her green eyes narrowing as she takes a drag from her own cigarette. “Well enough. I used to be with her brother.”

I nod, exhaling the smoke through my nose. Byron again. He’s everywhere, isn’t he? Even when he’s mine.

“She needs space, and her good-for-nothing brother needs to be there for her,” she adds, her tone sharp, bitter.

“Good for nothing?” I question, taking another pull of the cigarette, my gaze steady on her.

She hesitates, her lips parting as if unsure whether to continue. Then, as if something snaps, she does. “He’s MIA. I’m sure she told you. But this isn’t the first time. He did it after we split. Then one day, he showed up with the cops tailing him and got arrested right in front of her.” She points a finger at me, her anger flaring. “Useless,” she sneers. The words come out coated in venom, her voice cracking slightly at the end.

I let my gaze drift, my lips curling around the cigarette as I exhale again. The smoke hangs between us, thick and heavy. “I thought they were close.”

“They are. He just makes shit decisions, and loving someone doesn’t mean you’re there for them.”

I bite my lips, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“I’m sorry about Theresita,” I say, my tone gentle, assuming they were close.

She sniffles, her hand shaky as she presses the cigarette into the ashtray built into the trash can. “Give her space, pretty boy,” she mutters, her voice softer now. She avoids making eye contact as she heads back inside, her apron swaying slightly as she disappears into the diner.

I chuck the cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers smolder and die, before returning to my car. The leather creaks beneath me as I settle into the seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Space? She doesn’t know me at all. Gabriela doesn’t need space—she needs to serve me. Byron needs me. They just don’t know it yet.

I start the engine, the faint scent of wax and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. In the rear view mirror, the candles outside the diner flicker and die.

Chapter Thirty

Byron

My mother coughs, her lungs barely expanding enough to let her breathe. Her brown hair, once thick and shining, now hangs dull and lifeless around her face. Her eyes, once warm and full of light, are now heavy with something I can’t name—something I can’t forgive.

“Mijo, get away from here,” she says, her voice a rasp as she pulls the oxygen mask from her face.

“Mama, por favor,” I plead, my hands trembling as I try to guide the mask back onto her mouth. Her hand, frail and trembling, bats mine away with what little strength she has left. “Para. Stop.”

Her voice is weak, but the command is firm, and I freeze. The sound of the hospital machines fills the silence, each beep cutting into me, a reminder that her time is slipping away.

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