Page 65 of Painter's Obsession

I spit on the ground near his feet, “fuck you.” But all he does is laugh, and then I feel it. The cold press of the gun against my temple sends a shiver down my spine. “Go on, open that filthy mouth of yours.” My mouth falls open, trembling as shame and fear twist into something different, something I don’t want to name.

He thrusts himself inside, filling my mouth with a brutal force that leaves no room for resistance. The rain lashes down, cold and relentless, mingling with the tears streaming down my face. The sharp metallic taste of the barrel pressed against my temple mixes with the salt on my lips, the mud beneath me sucking at my knees, grounding me in this nightmare. Every inch of me feels drenched—by the storm, by my own fear, and by the humiliation pooling low in my stomach.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice slicing through the storm like a whip, sharp and unyielding.

I force my gaze up, my muscles trembling, my breath stuttering around him. His onyx eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. Those eyes burn with something primal and unholy, a cruel pleasure that tears through me like jagged glass.

The smirk on his lips widens as he tilts the gun to his own temple, the black metal glinting under the fractured light of the storm.

“Maybe luck’s on your side,” he purrs, his tone so rich with mockery it’s almost a caress.

He pulls the trigger.

Click.

No bullet.

A deep, guttural laugh rumbles from his chest, reverberating through me like the growl of an approaching predator. His thrusts grow harder, more deliberate, and each movement forces my body to betray me further. The rain hammers down, masking the obscene wet sounds between us, but nothing can drown out the low, guttural noises slipping from his throat—sounds of triumph, of victory.

Click.

Another empty chamber.

“Do you feel it?” he murmurs, leaning forward, his wet hair plastered against his forehead. The gun shifts, pressing harder into my temple. “Do you feel how close you are to the end? How much control I have over every fucking breath you take?”

The words drip with venom, each syllable sinking into me like needles. My stomach churns, but there’s something worse—something dark and horrifying bubbling just beneath the surface. The heat pooling low in my stomach, the way my body responds against my will, sends fresh waves of shame crashing over me.

Click.

The sound ricochets through my skull like a final judgment. My chest tightens, my lungs burn, and the pressure on my tongue becomes unbearable. His grip on the back of my head tightens, forcing me to take more of him as he drives deeper, harder, his hips a relentless machine of control.

“You’re mine, Thorn,” he growls, his voice low and feral. “All this fight, all this defiance, and still… you break so beautifully.”

The words cut deeper than any blade, and my eyes blur with tears. My throat tightens around him, and he groans, a sound of dark satisfaction that shakes me to my core.

The storm around us seems to quiet for a moment, the thunder fading into the background as the sound of my own heartbeat roars in my ears. I want to scream, to fight, but the cold metal against my temple reminds me of my place.

And then he spills down my throat, the warmth searing against my raw shame. My body shudders violently, and before I can stop it, I feel my own release—a hot, sticky stain spreading across the fabric of my pants.

The humiliation is all-consuming, suffocating me as I slump forward, trembling and defeated.

Ren pulls back slowly, savoring the moment. His smirk remains, cruel and triumphant, as he looks down at me. His free hand moves to wipe a stray drop of cum from the corner of my mouth, smearing it across my cheek like a twisted signature.

“Night night, Thorn,” he whispers, his voice dripping with mockery and satisfaction.

The rain continues to fall as my vision blurs, the edges of the world darkening. The last thing I feel is the cold mud against my skin and the iron grip of his hand around my ankle, dragging me back into the suffocating abyss of his control.

Chapter Thirty Five

Ren

Idrag my Thorn back into the studio, his body caked in blood and mud, but I don’t care. Not after he played me like a fool. Now he will have to face the consequences. I have the entire weekend to ruin him, and I will. “You should have behaved. We could have had fun. Now I’ll snuff out the lights. There won’t be any hope, just me,” I say, watching his eyes trail me. He can’t move—he’s under a sedative—but he can feel, and boy, he’s in for pain.

Grabbing the black three-tier rolling cart that contains the instruments I use for carving, I pull it to his new spot. Then I walk over to each post that will bind his arms above his head, giving each a harsh tug to test their strength before returning to him. I grab his arm and drag him to the spot, using my body to hold him up as I adjust the first cuff, then the second. He groans softly, his heavy breathing the only sign of resistance.

I tear off his soiled pajamas, exposing his body completely. The cold air hits his bare skin, and I take a moment to look at him—his cock no longer as angry as it was, but still requiring attention. Without a word, I grab the safety kit. The smell of peroxide fills the air as I clean the area, his muscles twitching at the contact. Using a wooden stick, I apply antibiotic ointment, careful yet efficient. He watches me, his eyes groggy but sharp, tracking my every move. His grunts begin to rise, breaking the silence.

“Stop grunting. It’s annoying,” I snap flatly, not even looking at him as I set the supplies down and grab the stool.

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