Page 72 of Painter's Obsession

Her lip quivers, but she obeys, pushing the bat away with a shaking hand.

“You’re both so obedient,” I mock, dragging the blade across her skin. “It’s almost endearing.”

The knife lies flat against her, its cold steel making her shudder. She turns her face away, her tears soaking the pillow beneath her. Her silence, her submission—it’s intoxicating. She looks even more beautiful this way.

“I’ll watch you bleed,” I murmur, sliding the blade higher, stopping just shy of her shorts. “And then I’ll watch him. My Thorn and my Rose.”

She turns her head farther away, sobbing uncontrollably as the fabric of her shorts begins to darken, damp with fear. What a naughty little thing.

“Plea—please,” she stammers, her voice barely audible.

“Shh,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Don’t beg—it only excites me.”

I groan softly, pressing my hand against myself, letting her see the evidence of my arousal. Her gaze darts to the bulge in my pants, and a fresh wave of sobs wracks her body.

“Will you be a good girl and help me before you bleed?” I ask, my tone almost gentle, mocking her with the pretense of kindness.

She shakes her head violently, her tears falling faster, her lips trembling. Then, she does the unthinkable. Fucking fights. She uses her voice to call for her brother and the sight is almost admirable, but little does she know I’m about to snuff out his light by ending her.

“Byron,” she chokes out, her voice raw and pleading.

A laugh escapes me, sharp and cruel.

“He’s not here,” I sneer, leaning in closer. “I cut him down already.”

I shove her back onto the bed. Why not? Why not savor her tears, the raw desperation?

But I didn’t expect the fight.

Her knee slams into my groin, pain exploding through my body like fire. My grip falters, and the knife nearly cuts me as I stumble back.

She doesn’t waste a second. Gabriela scrambles off the bed, her bare feet skidding on the wooden floor as she lunges for the door.

“Stupid little bitch,” I snarl, pushing myself up, fury surging through me.

I grab the nearest object—a vase from her nightstand—and hurl it at her. It smashes against the wall as she yanks the door open, her screams tearing through the storm.

“CALL 911!” she shrieks, her voice cracking with terror as she bolts across the yard to the neighbor’s house.

Her fists pound against their door, the rain drowning out her cries. A light flickers on inside, hesitant, wavering. For amoment, she’s just a silhouette in the storm, and I almost laugh at her desperation.

“Stupid fucking bitch,” I mutter under my breath, retreating toward the back door.

The rain pelts my mask as I run toward my car, my breathing heavy, my mind racing. By the time anyone comes to help her, I’ll be long gone.

But this isn’t over.

I rip off the mask and toss it into the back seat, my breathing still ragged. The adrenaline courses through me, hot and unrelenting. Turning on the car, I pull out of the trailer park, the rain pounding against the windshield, each drop a sharp reminder of my failure.

The road stretches out in front of me, dark and slick, leading me straight into the heart of town. The neon signs cast a sickly glow on the wet pavement, illuminating the silhouettes of prostitutes parading along the street corners.

Not my usual pick, but tonight, I need something to take the edge off. Something to drown the fury simmering beneath my skin.

Something that will drag him into the abyss with me.

He’s so close—so tantalizingly close. All I need is to give him a taste, to show him how far I’m willing to go. If I can’t snuff out his light completely yet, I’ll chip away at it piece by piece.

A woman with a red umbrella crosses in front of the car, her silhouette framed by the hazy streetlights. Late twenties, light brown skin, long legs in booty shorts, and a see-through black shirt that clings to her curves. Her long brown hair cascades in soft waves, parted to the side, and her bold red lipstick gleams like a fresh wound.

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