Page 20 of Painter's Obsession

He’ll see it eventually. That there was no real meaning to his life before me. Moving down the weathered steps, I watch my Thorn storm off to his neighbor’s yard, desperate to escape the pull I have on him. Let him run. Let him hide. It doesn’t matter.I felt it. I saw it—the flicker of need buried beneath his hatred. But tonight isn’t the night to reel him in. Predators like him don’t bow easily. No, they need traps—delicate sprinkles of sugar leading them to the water they so desperately crave.

My Thorn will be my first living toy, my masterpiece in motion. One that will see the true me, will understand the depths of my creation, and will beg to be consumed by it. By me. Darkness always wins. That much I’m sure of.

With a pep in my step, I hop into my car, the plush leather groaning softly as I settle in. My body hums with an electric need to create. The inspiration claws at my veins, demanding release. As I pull out of the small trailer park driveway, leaving Byron to sulk in his own festering emotions, I think of all the ways I can transform him. Break him. Rebuild him. But first, I’ll grant his wish—to free him from his prison.

Not as Gabriela, though. No, her light has no place here. To be his beacon, I must become something else entirely. Something darker. But that will take time—time to think, to plan, to perfect.

The solitary road stretches ahead, the silence wrapping around me like a shroud. I almost didn't notice the woman broken down on the side of the road. Her beat-up Honda sits there like a forgotten relic, and she’s fumbling with the hood in frustration. I slow, rolling down my window, the icy night air biting at my skin.

“Hi,” I call out, my voice warm, inviting. “Need a ride?”

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and wary. She freezes, recognition flickering across her face. “Oh. It’s you,” she says awkwardly, slamming the hood shut with a loud clang.

I take her in, noting her tense posture and the way her hands rub together for warmth. It’s an isolated road, after all—too isolated. Her car won’t be found for at least a day, maybe two. What was she even doing out here?

But I don’t care. I just need her inside. Once she’s in, there’s no escape.

“Car trouble?” I ask, my voice casual, almost friendly.

She nods, blowing out a frustrated breath that fogs the cold night air. “Ran out of gas,” she mutters, shivering.

“Well, I can either bring you some gas or take you to the station,” I offer, my tone dripping with concern. “But you shouldn’t be out here alone—it’s not safe.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies me, suspicion flickering before fading into resignation. “I’ll go with you,” she says finally, her tone cautious but resolved. “I’ve seen you before. I’ll take my chances.” She turns back toward her car. “Let me just grab my purse and lock up.”

I nod, letting a warm, reassuring smile tug at my lips as I shift the car into park and unbuckle my seat belt. My hand drifts toward the back seat, where my special medicine waits, cold and ready. I grip it tightly, bringing it to the front and hiding it between my legs as I watch her walk back to her car. The black tote slung over her shoulder sways gently, its pins catching the moonlight and glinting like tiny stars.

When she slides into the passenger seat, I catch the moment her body relaxes—just slightly. My face is familiar to her, reassuring. Handsome. I’m not the kind of guy who’d pick up a woman just to murder her, at least not in her mind. No, I’m the kind of guy women like her fantasize about, hoping for a chance to score with a rich, charming stranger.

And tonight will prove no different.

Chapter Twelve

Byron

So far, meeting Prince Charming has done nothing but leave me with a sour taste in my mouth, a pounding headache, and a raging erection. The worst part? I don’t want to bury my cock into Linda’s warm, willing cunt to fix it. No, what I really want is to put distance between me and whatever twisted game that asshole is playing before I do something I’ll end up regretting.

The dew-soaked grass squishes under my feet as I trudge away from the trailer, and I curse when I realize I’m wearing my black slides and socks instead of my boots. Wet socks. As if I needed another reason to fantasize about strangling Ren Sato—preferably with my hands. Or maybe my cock.

From the corner of my eye, I catch the flash of headlights as his high-end car pulls out of the shitty parking spot by my trailer. I bite my lip, watching until his taillights vanish into the distance. Only then do I turn back home and make my way inside.

The second I step through the door, the scent hits me—him. Expensive cologne, sharp and infuriating but somehow intoxicating. The air is saturated with it, wrapping around me like a second skin, and I hate how it makes my pulse race.

Walking down the narrow hall, I freeze as the image of his muscled back slams into me, unbidden. The way the dragon tattoo curled and shifted with every powerful thrust, every flex of his body as he took her—it’s burned into my brain, no matter how hard I try to shake it.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slapping the side of my head as if that will erase the memory. It doesn’t.

The thought of him being with my sister should be enough to kill this sick fascination. If anyone’s off-limits, it’s the smug prick she’s head over heels for. He’s bad news for her—and worse for me.

I can barely move around with my cock as hard as it is, but nothing a cold shower can’t fix. Quickly, I strip out of my sweats, white t-shirt, and wet socks, tossing them into the hamper like they’ve offended me. Wrapping a black towel around my waist, I step into the hall and head to the bathroom I share with Gabs.

Turning the water to the coldest setting, I hang my towel behind the door and step into the icy stream. The cold rush hits my inked body, but it does nothing to cool the burn beneath my skin. The need is still there, clawing at me, raw and insistent. My cock throbs, hard and unrelenting, and I know I won’t make it through this shower without giving in.

Groaning, I wrap my hand around my length, resting my head against the cold tiles. The image of Ren’s back muscles moving as he thrust into her flickers in my mind. But instead of her, it’s me he’s fucking, pounding into me with that same relentless energy.

“Fuck,” I growl, the shame coiling in my stomach, twisting with the raw need. The visceral arousal tightens mybodybuilding , and my strokes become rougher, faster, fueled by the memory of his tongue darting out to clean the spit off his face earlier. Only now, it’s not spit—it’s my cum, thick and coating his lips.

The thought alone sends me over the edge. My release is quick and violent, my breath ragged as I spill over my hand. The shame rushes in immediately, hot and suffocating, but I scrub the evidence away in the cold stream, hoping to wash the sickness from my skin.

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