Page 36 of Painter's Obsession

But I also need sleep.

Clapping my hands, the water shuts off. I step out of the shower, grabbing a plush white towel to dry off. Naked, I shuffle toward my bed, collapsing onto it with a groan.

Sleep feels pointless, but it doesn’t matter. Since I work from my office, I don’t have to commute. I can realistically work from anywhere.

Placing my hand on my cock—a habit I picked up as a teenager—I close my eyes and let myself drift toward my own personal purgatory. There is no rest for the wicked. Even in our dreams, the monsters come for us.

Chapter Twenty One

Byron

The warmth of a mouth closes around my cock. Wet muscles lick and twist, coaxing me deeper. My hips thrust instinctively, driving into the heat, chasing the sensation. “Fuck,” I breathe, the word slipping from my lips as soft, delicate hands cup my balls, teasing them with agonizing slowness. The throat tightens around me, squeezing the head of my cock in a way that’s almost unbearable.

Pain ripples through me, sharp and sudden. The agony comes in waves, pulling me from the haze of pleasure. My eyes snap open, and the sight before me freezes my blood.

Ren’s mouth is around my cock.

Blood trickles from the corners of his lips, mixing with saliva and dripping down his chin. His smirk curls wickedly as he takes me deeper, the wet heat turning into something grotesque. The pain intensifies, the stitches pulling at the raw,torn skin with every movement. I want to stop, but my body betrays me, thrusting harder, chasing release.

“Que rico,” I growl through clenched teeth, the words tinged with both ecstasy and agony. The climax crashes through me, my hips jerking violently as I spill into his throat. The pain twists the pleasure into something monstrous, leaving me shaking and broken.

Reality slams into me like a freight train. My heart races in my chest as my eyes dart around the room—the high ceilings, the mirrors, the grotesque art pieces that resemble bodies found around town. The pain sharpens, mixing with panic, dragging me further into the nightmare.

I force myself to look down, to face the source of my torment. My cock throbs painfully, blood rushing to the erect flesh, pulling against the jagged black stitches.Stitches.

I blink once, then again, hoping the sight will disappear. It doesn’t. My jaw clenches as I grip the base, inspecting the crude repair, the uneven edges of skin pulled together like a grotesque patchwork.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I scream, the words ripping from my throat in a guttural roar. “Ren!”

Pain flares as I roll to my stomach, and my eyes catch on something—the spotless floor. My breath hitches, and the memory slams into me like a tidal wave.

Ren. Naked. His arm swinging down. The sickening crunch of bone. The red splatter against the white tile.

“Theresita,” I whisper, my voice breaking. The image vanishes, leaving only the clean floor, mocking me with its emptiness.

I roll onto my back, the pain ebbing slightly now that I’ve gone soft. My breathing steadies, but the horror remains. My eyes scan the room, the art, the mirrors. The stitches.

And I realize— the bodies aren’t just bodies. They’re art. His art.

And I’m next.

I lift my head and slam it down onto the cold tile. Pain explodes across my skull, sharp and immediate, but it’s better than the torment clawing at my chest. Once. Twice. On the third strike, stars burst across my vision, blotting out the world.

“Gabriela,” I mutter, her name barely more than a breath. The fear cuts through the haze, a straight shot of adrenaline that jolts me into action. My sister. She’s in danger, and it’s my fault.

I scramble to my knees, ignoring the fiery throb in my cock, but the chain around my neck snaps tight, yanking me back like a dog on a leash. The leather digs into my skin, biting, burning as I strain against it. My hands claw at the chain, fingers slipping on the cold metal as I try to free myself.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glint of black—a pouch within reach. Hope flares, fragile but persistent. Then my gaze shifts, landing on the cart near the wall, a small screen perched on top. That wasn’t there last night. My gut twists.

I lunge for the pouch, abandoning the chain. My fingers close around the rough material, fumbling as I rip it open. Gauze, tape, a small tube of ointment. Nothing useful. Disappointment hits like a punch to the gut.

I collapse onto my bare ass, the chill of the tile seeping into my skin and sending shivers down my spine. If this were some kind of fucked-up movie, this is where the hero would break down and cry. But I can’t. Not now. Not when Gabriela’s life depends on me.

My hand drifts to the back of my head, where a warm trickle slides down my neck. When I pull my fingers away, they’re slick with blood. This is real. All of it.

I’m really kidnapped in some psycho’s art studio. I really watched my childhood friend die. And now, that same asshole is dating my sister.

“I knew it,” I whisper, my voice shaking with rage and guilt. “I fucking knew it.”

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