Page 38 of Painter's Obsession

Smooth hands run across my back, the smell of cinnamon familiar and warm. I cuddle my pillows as I bite back the pain that comes from her hands on the welt on my back. Her tear falls on my back; the hot liquid stings my throbbing welts from the belt.

“He shouldn’t have hurt you that way...” she whispers as she stops. “I should have stopped him,” her voice breaks at the end, but I don’t turn to face her.

Men don’t cry. Men don’t feel. That’s women shit, and I’m no bitch. Dad is right. I am a man, and I needed to act like it. Mustering all the power I can, steadying my voice, I say, “I’m alright. He’s right. I’m a man.”

She sobs softly. “No, mijo, you’re still a boy. Still learning.”

But she was wrong, of course. I wasn’t a boy. I was a man with needs—but they weren’t normal. It wasn’t the smooth curves of a woman I craved but something rough.

The pain jolts me awake, ripping me from the past. My body is a sweaty mess, the cold tiles beneath me doing nothing to soothe the fire burning through my flesh. I groan as I prop myself up with my elbows. My cock continues to throb, it looks a bit more swollen and definitely more irritated, the stitches are even tighter now against the skin. Maybe that’s normal. But I doubt it. Yet again it could be just another part of whatever twisted plan that sick fuck has for me.

The studio seems darker now. It must be nighttime or close to it. The air feels heavy, the sharp tang of bleach clinging to my nostrils. There’s something else beneath it, too—something faintly metallic. Blood.

A flicker catches my attention, drawing my eyes to the small screen perched on the cart. There’s no sound, just grainy, colorless footage. For someone as wealthy as Ren, you’d expect the latest technology.

The image sharpens slightly, revealing him sitting across from someone. His posture is perfect, his charm radiating even through the distorted feed. He’s all smiles, the white turtleneck snug against his broad shoulders, his black hair combed back with meticulous precision.

He looks like the perfect fucking Prince Charming.

My stomach twists as I watch him lift a wine glass to his lips, his eyes flicking up toward the camera—or what I think is the camera. It’s as if he’s looking at me. A message. It has to be.

The smirk that curls on his lips makes my chest tighten. He knows.

He knows I’m watching.

He brings a piece of steak to his mouth, chewing with slow deliberation, his attention momentarily shifting to his companion. I can’t see who it is. The camera angle obscures them, but given the way his eyes soften—just barely—I know it’s her.

Gabriela.

My stomach drops, and the pain in my cock spikes, a sharp zap that rips a groan from my throat. I double over, clutching at the tiles, but I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.

He’s with her. My baby sister.

My chest heaves as the realization crashes over me. Gabriela is sitting across from the same man who mutilated me, the man who’s been toying with me like I’m some kind of broken puppet. She doesn’t know.

Ren leans forward slightly, his hand brushing against hers, and my heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s about to crack my ribs. He’s playing her. Using her.

But what terrifies me more than that is the flicker of something genuine in his expression. Like she matters to him. Like he’s not just doing this to break me—but to keep her.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the pain in my body nothing compared to the pressure building in my chest.

The screen flickers again, the image distorting for a second before his face comes back into focus. His smirk is gone now, replaced with something colder, harder. He’s looking at the camera again, his head tilting slightly as if to say,What are you going to do about it?

The answer is simple…. nothing.

Because I can’t do anything. Not yet.

Even as the screen fades to black, his image burns in my mind. The smirk, the eyes, the way his hand lingered just a second too long on Gabriela’s.

He’s not just breaking me. He’s wrapping his hands around everything I care about, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left.

And I hate that a small, treacherous part of me wonders what it would feel like to let him win.

I fall onto my back, the cold tile smacking hard against the back of my head. Pain flares briefly, sharp and fleeting, beforegiving way to something heavier. A single tear slips from the corner of my eye, trailing down to the tile beneath me.

Hopelessness swallows me whole, drowning out everything else—the gnawing hunger twisting my stomach, the thirst burning my cracked lips. I stare at the ceiling, my mind grasping for ways I could overpower him, but every scenario ends the same.

He could be hurting her now. Gabriela. He could be doing the unthinkable. My chest tightens, and for one agonizing moment, I wonder if closing my eyes and never waking up would hurt less than this.

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