Page 6 of Painter's Obsession

“Touch yourself,” I order, my voice hoarse, as I continue my work. She hesitates, but the hunger in her eyes gives her away. Slowly, shamefully, her fingers begin to move.

I paint in a trance, each stroke more visceral than the last, the canvas alive with her essence. Her moans blend with the scrapeof my brush, a symphony of sin. When I’ve drawn enough, when my hunger becomes unbearable, I toss the brush aside.

I free my cock, and with a growl, I thrust into her. She cries out, her body jolting against the table, nearly falling, but I hold her down. Blood slicks my length, her warmth clinging to me as I move—slow, deliberate, punishing.

Her nails claw at my arms, her cries softening into whimpers. “Ren, please…” she breathes, her voice breaking.

I lean down, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her breast until copper fills my mouth. Her body shudders, and her eyes begin to glaze. The sedative in her wine finally takes hold.

I come inside her, filling her, claiming her, as her body goes slack beneath me. Her eyes, wide with terror, lock onto mine as I lean close, my breath hot against her ear.

“We will create something beautiful,” I whisper, my voice a promise and a curse.

Chapter Four

Byron

“It’s been almost two years since the first appearance of theLaguna Bay Painter,“ the reporter says, her voice hollow, like it’s been siphoned through static. “The latest victim was found drained of blood, the body frozen in time.”

The other reporter chimes in. “Is the killer evolving?”

The psychiatrist shifts in her chair, her gaze sharp behind thick glasses. “It looks that way. Someone like theLaguna Bay Paintercould be searching for their next big piece—another muse. Or maybe they’re bored. Killers are no different from artists. Elevating their work, pushing boundaries, seeking notoriety… That’s how you make people remember you.”

The TV clicks off. The silence that follows feels heavy, as if the killer’s shadow lingers behind the screen, watching.

“Bedtime.”

The guard’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, and the cells unlock in unison with a shudderingclang.The noiserattles through my skull as I move with the others, shuffling towards our cages like cattle at slaughter. Each step echoes the countdown in my mind. One more night. Then I’m free.

Free to help my sister. Free to face whatever waits for me outside.

I step into my cell, and Luigi is already sitting up on the top bunk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The dim light casts shadows across his wiry frame, his grin sharp enough to cut. “You gonna miss Daddy when you’re back in the real world?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

My jaw tightens, and I glare at him. He knows what I think about him calling himselfDaddy. It’s not like I suck his dick or let him fuck me. If anything, he’s been my bitch—myway to survive in this shithole. But the truth tastes bitter at the back of my throat.

“No,” I lie, the word like gravel.

Luigi’s grin widens, but his eyes narrow, searching me. Deep down, I know what I want—what I can’t want—but tomorrow, I’ll prove to myself that this wasn’t lust. It wasneed. I’ll find some pretty little thing, a wet cunt to drown in, and I’ll bury all of this between her thighs.

Jumping down from the top bunk, Luigi moves toward me, his feet soundless on the cold concrete. He stops at the edge of my bed and tilts his head, like a wolf sizing up its prey. “One last time,” he says, sliding into my bunk without asking.

Something tightens in my chest, and my cock betrays me—heat pooling in my groin like molten lead. I clench my fists against the mattress, my voice low and hard. “Not tonight.”

Luigi’s face twists, his confidence faltering. “You’ll regret that,” he mutters, like a scorned lover, but his grin returns, crueler this time. “You know, I should’ve made you my bitch. Showed you just how much you like it.”

“I’m not gay,” I snap.

He laughs, a soft, dark sound that coils around me like smoke. “Sure. And the sky isn’t blue.” He points at the bulge in my sweats. “Your dick says otherwise, B.”

Turning his back to me, he climbs onto his bunk, pulling the thin blanket up over his shoulders like a shroud. The air feels colder now, sharper somehow.

I lay back on my own bunk, staring up at the rusted metal bars that hold his cot. The silence presses down, heavy and unrelenting, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. My body hums, restless, too wired to sleep.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk out of this cell. Out of this life. But something gnaws at me, a whisper at the back of my mind that I can’t shake. The psychiatrist’s words loop on repeat.“Elevating their work. Pushing boundaries. Seeking notoriety…”

TheLaguna Bay Painteris out there. Waiting. Evolving.

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