Page 12 of Painter's Obsession

My fingers plunge inside the woman before me, her body instinctively clenching around me despite her fading strength. Her heat burns against my cold skin, and I hiss, half in pleasure, half in disgust. Fucking doesn’t do it for me. It never has. Control. Power. That’s what gets me off. That’s what feeds the endless, gnawing hunger inside me.

The night I killed my mother wasn’t filled with rage. It wasn’t fear. It was peace—a quiet, haunting clarity. As her blood spilled across the pristine white tiles of our perfect home, I felt free for the first time. But freedom is fleeting. I traded one cage for another, and now I’m incapable of normalcy. I’m successful, charming even. But that’s all a mask.. All play pretend, monsters are master of disguise after all.

I curl my fingers inside her, coaxing a soft moan from her cracked lips. Her hips twitch, the smallest echo of life still responding to me. Even in her broken state, her body betrays her, chasing that final moment of pleasure. And as she cums, her walls tightening around me in a futile act of defiance, I lift my free hand to her thigh.

The blade moves quick, slicing cleanly across her femoral vein. Crimson spills in a sudden, furious rush, painting her legs, pooling beneath her. I watch, mesmerized, as the light fades completely from her dull green eyes. Her body goes still, and for a moment, the hunger quiets.

But only for a moment.

Stepping back, I admire the scene—the twisted beauty of her lifeless form, the red soaking the floor, the scent of copper thickin the air. It’s art. But art fades, just like the satisfaction I chase. I set the blade down with a sigh, my fingers twitching for the next thrill.

The sharp buzz of my phone breaks the silence. I glance at it, curiosity flickering as I pick it up. My lips curl into a grin when I hear the voice on the other end—smooth, upbeat, filled with life. My next flower.

“Hi,” she says, her tone carrying the kind of innocence I live to corrupt.

“Hey, you,” I reply, the purr in my voice masking the dark anticipation stirring within me. I pour a glass of white wine before sitting back on the floor amidst the blood, already envisioning the brushstrokes I’ll create with her.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, no,” I say smoothly, swirling the wine in my glass. “You called at the perfect time. I was starting to worry I hadn’t left an impression.”

Her laugh is warm, carefree. The sound fuels the fire in me.

“You? Worried? I doubt it.”

“Oh, but I was,” I say, and it’s not a lie. It’s early morning. I haven’t slept. My mind has been consumed with thoughts of her—and him. My Rose and her Thorn.

How ironic that my latest creation fell into my lap quite literally. Long brown locks cascade down her shoulders, golden skin glistening in the sunlight, almond brown eyes wide with innocence. The naivety in her gaze makes her all the more intoxicating.

People talk about passion as if it’s a beautiful, untamed thing. For me, it’s clinical. A ritual. A way to feel something… anything. And feel something I did that day, but it wasn’t from the pretty Rose. It was from the Thorn beside her. His sharp gaze, his defiance, the tension in his frame. I’d do anything to see himbroken, on his knees for me, sunken eyes filled with exhaustion, chained and bound.

I couldn’t wait to cut her Thorn.

Chapter Eight

Byron

The days since I got out of prison have blurred together—one week turning into four. Now, I’ve got a job working with some of the guys I grew up with. It’s a small construction company, but it pays the bills. All I need is to catch up on the overdue ones, and I’m almost there. My body aches from the day’s work, but it’ll be worth it. I just have to keep my head straight—no going back to selling. Providing for Gabriela is the priority, and soon, I’ll finally finish what I started two years ago.

Taking a bite of my turkey sandwich, I glance at my sister. She’s perched on the counter, texting away, a goofy smile lighting up her face. For someone as sharp as Gabriela, whoever she’s talking to has turned her brain to mush. But who am I to judge?

“Who’s got you looking like a complete pendeja?” I ask, chewing lazily.

She frowns and sets her phone on the counter like it just insulted her. “A guy,” she admits softly, her voice carrying that hint of vulnerability only I can catch.

“I gathered that.” I raise an eyebrow, taking another bite. “Is it serious or something?”

Gabriela smiles, small but there. “Something like that.” She twists a strand of her dark hair, her fingers moving faster the longer she talks. “I don’t know... He’s so out of my league. Like, he’s everything I’m not.”

I stop mid-chew, my eyes softening as I take her in. She’s beautiful, delicate, and naive—just like our mom was, the light of our lives before she passed. “Look at me,” I say firmly, pointing a finger her way until she meets my eyes. “You. Are. Everything. You feel me?”

Her lips twitch into a smile, but she bites her lower lip, still unconvinced. “You don’t understand. He’s a man with a real career. Status.” She exhales sharply, leaning on the counter with her elbows. “He’s a lawyer, and I’m just a hairstylist. We met at the diner—you know a lawyer, all charming and polished.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I just feel small. Men like Ren are every woman’s dream.”

A suit? Ren. The name tugs at something in my memory, familiar but just out of reach. Goosebumps rise on my arms, much like the time I was introduced to that lawyer... Damn it. What was his name?

Gabriela groans, letting her forehead rest against the cold counter. “Why is dating so hard?” she huffs.

My little sister has it bad for this Mr. Charming, but that’s her business. She’s twenty-six, grown enough to make her own choices. Still, with a killer on the loose, I can’t help but worry.

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