Page 57 of Painter's Obsession

I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “For?”

“Hit and run,” he says, his voice low. “Got drunk, hit some guy. He didn’t make it.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Messy business,” I say lightly. “But manageable. Let’s talk Monday. I’m sure there’s something I can do for you.”

Kevin nods, his hand briefly brushing his face, a nervous tic I’ve seen before. We both know this favor will cost him, and I’ll enjoy making him pay.

I follow him downstairs, watching as he pulls out of the driveway. The night air bites against my skin, sharp and bracing,and for a moment, I let it anchor me. Then my attention shifts to the small brown paper bag sitting on the counter by the door.

The udon noodles I ordered earlier. My stomach growls as I grab the bag, the rich scent of broth and spices wafting up as I carry it into the kitchen.

I sit at the counter, the cool marble beneath my arms as I pull out the plastic container and chopsticks. The noodles are still warm, steam curling into the air as I take the first bite. It’s good—comforting, even—but I barely taste it. My thoughts remain upstairs with him.

Byron’s infection is handled for now. His fever might break by morning. But that’s not the real problem, is it?

The real problem is that I need him alive. Not because I care, because I don’t. But because he’s mine.

I finish the noodles quickly, rinse the container in the sink, and head back upstairs, my feet quiet on the hardwood. The room smells of antiseptic and sweat, the sharp tang of illness hanging in the air. Byron lies still, his face slack and pale. His fever hasn’t broken yet, but now, instead of an injured dog, he looks like a peaceful angel, lying on my bed, wearing my boxers and silk pajamas.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. His lips twitch faintly, a soundless murmur slipping through the air. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, catching the dim light, and I reach out, brushing it away with my thumb. His skin is scalding.

“You’re lucky I don’t let things break so easily,” I murmur, my voice low, almost tender.

The cuff glints in the dim light, a cold, sharp contrast to the fevered heat of his body. I tighten the blanket around him, tucking it carefully, deliberately. Not out of care. Out of control.

His chest stirs faintly, a shallow gasp escaping him. For a moment, his lips form a word—inaudible, fragile, a whisper of something that doesn’t quite reach me.

“You’ll survive this,” I say, leaning close enough that my breath brushes his ear. “Because you have to bleed for me, and only then will I consider letting you die.”

I stay there for a moment, watching him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the light plays across his fevered skin.

It’s not care. It’s ownership.

Tomorrow, he’ll wake up, and he’ll know exactly who holds the leash.

And I’ll make sure he never forgets it.

Chapter Thirty Two

Byron

“Mijo, wake up.”

My mother’s voice cuts through the void. “Fight it,” she adds, her tone soft yet urgent. My head jerks, searching blindly for her.

“Mama,” I scream, stumbling into the darkness, following the sound of her voice. My steps falter as something warm and sticky coats my feet. The sharp, metallic scent of blood overwhelms my senses, choking me.

The lights cut on, and I freeze.

Ren is sitting in the center of a crimson pool, dipping his paintbrush into the blood and dragging it across his canvas. His onyx eyes flick to me, gleaming like polished obsidian, and his mouth twists into a satisfied smile.

I try to scream, but no sound comes.

I come to, gasping for air like I’ve been drowning. My chest burns, my skin slick with sweat, and the room tilts around me, bending and twisting in ways it shouldn’t.

The shadows on the walls shift unnaturally, creeping and pulsing like living things. For a moment, I think I see a face—a twisted grin with hollow, empty eyes staring back at me—but when I blink, it’s gone.

There’s movement nearby. The soft rustle of paper. I try to tilt my head, but my neck feels locked, my muscles stiff and unresponsive.

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