Page 21 of Painter's Obsession

I need him out of her life. I need Ren Sato out of mine.

Once I’m done scrubbing away the shame, the disgust, and my sins, I step out of the shower and dry off. Slipping into black joggers, I skip the boxers—I haven’t worn them since prison. Freeballing at night is just one of those habits I can’t shake, a quiet rebellion against a past that still clings to me.

My body shivers as memories creep in, unbidden. The sting of the belt. The pain. The welts. My dad’s voice, sharp and venomous, echoing in my head.

“Mi hijo no es maricón. No.” Another swing. I wanted to scream from the sting, but I didn’t. I clenched my fists, ground my teeth, and took my punishment. For being sick. For looking at what I shouldn’t.

“No son of mine will grow up to be a fag.” He’d snarled those words, and they’ve been branded into me ever since.

Chapter Thirteen

Ren

Iwould’ve carried her, but this so-called wildflower left me with a split lip, and I’m in no mood to be charitable. My blood hums with anticipation as I drag her limp body through the dewy grass, her body carving tracks in the earth behind us. Each step fuels the storm raging inside me, my mind racing with the possibilities of what I’ll create tonight.

The car ride wasn’t what I expected. Usually, they get handsy—whisper sweet nothings or make clumsy attempts to escape—but it always ends the same way. Either they agree to come to my place, or they’re busy sucking me off long enough for the medicine to kick in. I like letting the drugs do their work. It keeps the toys intact. But this bitch? She fought. And thanks to that I have a split lip.

I breathe deeply, forcing my aggravation down as her head lolls to the side, hair brushing the ground. She’s still now, the medicine finally doing its job, but not before I had to bash herhead into the dashboard to keep her from killing us both. Even in danger, she fought like a survivor—wild, feral, and reckless.

I’ll enjoy breaking her.

The studio room looms ahead, hidden deep in the woods. It’s my sanctuary, my temple. After my mother’s death, I sold everything and got this place—far away from prying eyes. The heavy door stands before us, silent and imposing. Placing my hand against the scanner, I wait for the red light to sweep over my palm. Behind me, she groans, the sound low and guttural, her head shifting weakly as her eyes flit around at the towering trees.

The door beeps, and I shove it open, crossing the threshold. Her head thuds against the floor as I drop her legs carelessly, kicking the door shut behind us. I clap my hands, the sound sharp and final, and the lights flicker on, flooding the room with a harsh, clinical glow.

"Welcome home," I murmur, taking in the sight of my newest acquisition in her new resting place.

This is my gallery.

The white tile floor gleams under the fluorescent lights, sloping just enough for the blood to pool and drain away easily. Mirrors cover every inch of the walls, reflecting the scene from every possible angle. Bones and painted canvases line the walls—each a masterpiece, born from my favorite creations. Wax mannequins stand frozen in the corners, contorted into grotesque, lifelike poses.

She makes a weak noise as I strip, tossing my clothes carelessly to the floor. I like being naked when I work—returning to my most primal state. Turning to her, I catch her wide, glassy eyes in the mirror. Brown, terrified, and filled with the clarity of someone who finally understands the depths of their situation.

“You must be so scared,” I say, my voice soft, almost soothing. “And you should be.”

Her eyes dart frantically, looking for an escape where none exists. I smile, locking eyes with her through the mirror.

“But don’t worry,” I say, crouching beside her, brushing her hair back from her face. “We’re going to create something beautiful together.”

I stand by the counter, pouring myself a glass of wine. Grateful, I let the warmth of it spread through me, no longer having to worry about masks or pretense. This part is mine to enjoy, a moment to just be. No act. No performance. Just me.

I swirl the wine in the glass, taking a slow sip. My mind races with thoughts of how to break her, how to mold her into something... broken. The idea stirs something deep inside me, something primal. Her waitress uniform is torn and soaked, remnants of what I’ve done to her. I know she wants to move, to fight back, but the sedative makes her a prisoner of her own body.

A smirk twists at the corner of my lips. There's no denying it—I'm a deviant. And in this space, I don't have to hide it. This is my dominion, my world where the mask slips away and the monster is free to do what it wants.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, stepping closer to her, my eyes tracing her features—her wide brown eyes, the softness of her skin, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her hair, a dark brown with strands of gold, falls across her face, inviting my gaze.

“Such a beautiful flower,” I murmur, “but not quite ready to be picked.”

I crouch beside her, placing the wine glass down gently. My hands move to her, undressing her slowly, savoring the feel of her skin, my eyes drinking in every inch. She groans, the sound low and strained, but I can tell—she thinks I’m about to rape her. But that’s not what’s coming.

Then, it hits me. This one, this prize, is more valuable to me intact than destroyed. She won’t be broken. Not beyond repair, at least. She’ll be the bait I need, the perfect tool to lead him to me. And when he arrives, she’ll be his. My gift to him.

I stand over her, my body tense with anticipation, the weight of the moment settling in. She's helpless, her brows drawn in fear as I watch her tears slip down her face. The sight is... almost perfect. She groans, desperate to move, but the sedative has rendered her immobile. She’ll be like this for hours, unable to fight or flee, her body tied up and ready to be used.

Right now, though, I need power. I need release.

I move my hand over my cock, the sensation making me breathe unevenly. Her terror is a sweet, twisted fuel for my desire. I chuckle darkly, watching her struggle against the medicine, still unwilling to accept the situation.

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