Page 15 of Painter's Obsession

“Keep the change,” I say smoothly.

“Muchas gracias, señor. Buenas noches.”

I nod, bowing my head slightly. “Good night to you too, Don Juan.”

Back in my car, I grab my phone and text Gabriela.

Secured the goods!! Officially on my way. Sorry for running late.

The response is almost instant.

Take your time. Can’t wait to see you.

I don’t reply. Instead, I place the car in drive and head toward Montez, one of the grittiest neighborhoods in Laguna Bay. A hunter’s haven, where no one asks questions, not even the police, who are as corrupt as the criminals they pretend to pursue. A devil’s playground.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive before I pull into the trailer park. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I hum along to the haunting rhythm of A Little Death. The moment I cut the engine, I see him—the Thorn.

He emerges from a neighbor’s yard, chest inked and gleaming with sweat, a white T-shirt slung lazily over his shoulder. His hair is a prison fade, his movements loose. A man freshly fucked. He watches my car with a predator’s caution as he removes a joint from behind his ear.

I step out, running a hand through my hair, careful to exude just the right amount of charm. We’re about the same height, though I might edge him out at 6‘4“. He’s broader, raw power wrapped in muscle, while I’m lean, honed precision. More beautiful than I remember, prison has done him justice and if I thought seeing him that one night made him ethereal. His natural habitat makes him something even more magical. Feral.

“Hi,” I say, offering my hand. “You must be Gabriela’s brother. I’m Ren, we spoke on the phone.”Not a flicker of recognition crosses his features and if it did he masked it well but I can’t ignore how his eyes roam over me.

He studies me, the joint dangling between his fingers, smoke curling around him like a veil. “I am. She should be inside.” His voice is rough, a mix of curiosity and warning. He takes a drag, then holds the joint out to me. “You smoke?”

I usually don’t—not unless I’m painting. Weed and wine fuel my creativity, but tonight is about strategy. “I do.”

I take the joint, letting my fingers brush against his calloused hand. A flicker of something passes between us, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. Connection? No. Such things don’t exist in my world. Yet, I couldn’t shake the small twinge of something inside me, the darkness hidden behind the mask, not quite like mine but I see it. And I want it. I need to harvest it.

“I brought tacos,” I add, taking a slow drag, letting the smoke linger in my lungs before handing the joint back. “Carne, chicken, and some Coronas.”

He nods, snatching the joint from my fingers, the motion almost hurried. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my Thorn likes more than just pussy. And if he doesn’t, he will.

Because I’ll teach him.

But not yet. These things take meticulous planning. You don’t tame a predator—you subdue them, slowly, carefully.

And tonight? Tonight is about planting the seeds. A charming facade, an illusion. A Mr. Nice Guy to disarm him. And when the thorns drop their guard, that’s when I’ll strike. That day two years ago sealed his fate, he’s been the itch in the back of my mind and finally I get to scratch it.

“Is she feeling any better?” I ask as I step toward the passenger door, masking my true intent with concern.

“Need help?” Byron offers, ignoring my question, lingering near me like a guard dog sizing up a trespasser. My eyes focus on the snakes coiling around his arm and into his chest and how they gleam under the dim light, the faint scent of smoke and sweat clinging to him.

I could’ve refused—I didn’t need help—but men like him crave purpose, a false sense of control in a world that’s stripped them bare. “Sure, grab the beer,” I reply smoothly, handing over the case. He takes it begrudgingly, his movements rough but efficient, and Gabriela’s voice chimes from the doorway.

“Hi, you.” Her hair is swept into a high ponytail, her beige sweater and black leggings cling to her modest curves. Byron huffs as he shoulders past her with the beer, his annoyance palpable. I, meanwhile, perform my role with precision. “You look beautiful, as always.”

Her lips twitch into a shy smile as I offer the roses—vivid red against the muted tones of her outfit. She takes them with delicate hands, raising them to her nose. “Are these for me?”

“Of course,” I say, tone warm but calculated. “I’m sure your brother wouldn’t appreciate flowers from a stranger.”

She giggles softly, glancing over her shoulder. “No, Byron definitely wouldn’t.”

“Thought as much.” I lean in, and right on cue, she rises onto her toes to press a feather-light kiss to my lips. Predictable, pliable.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” she whispers, her naivety feeding my growing obsession.

“Mmm. You might have to remind me just how much,” I murmur, the double entendre slipping through with ease.

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