Page 41 of Painter's Obsession

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I line up with her entrance. In one brutal thrust, I bury myself inside her.

My gaze remains locked on the camera as I move, refusing to break the trance. Each thrust is calculated, deliberate. I’m not here for her warmth—I don’t even feel it. It’s his tight defiance I picture, his body taking me, his blood marking me. Not hers.

I know he wouldn’t want to submit, wouldn’t want to be a bottom—but he will. He’ll have no choice.

Even unconscious, her cunt clenches greedily around me, choking my cock with every brutal thrust. I release her hair, letting her face fall to the table with a soft thud. My hand comes down on her ass, the smack echoing in the room.

I glance down, watching where we connect. The tattoo above my groin—Rotten Pieces—seems to shift with the motion, the red ink of the dragon tail disappearing as I bury myself deeper inside her.

Closing my eyes, I let the fantasy consume me. It’s him. Byron. His blood, his resistance, the moment he finally breaks. I see it all, feel it all.

The thought alone makes my toes curl, warmth pooling deep in my core before I plunge headfirst over the edge.

“Fuck,” I groan, pumping slowly as my release spills into the condom. My fingers dig into her ass, careful not to leave a mark.

Again, my eyes find the camera. I pull out, walking toward it naked and still hard, making sure he sees everything as I unroll the condom and toss it to the side.

I smirk, tilting my head slightly.

“Bye-bye,” I mouth, flicking the feed off with a deliberate press of the button.

Chapter Twenty Five

Byron

The stench of my waste hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of bleach and the metallic scent of blood. It’s suffocating, clinging to my skin as I watch in horror. He’s fucking my sister. The act is so vile, so unspeakable, that my stomach churns violently—but my body betrays me.

A twisted game. A pawn on his board.

My cock twitches against my will, a cruel and disgusting reminder of how broken I am. How sick I’ve become. Proving, once again, that my father was right.

“GABRIELA!” I scream at the screen, my voice cracking, raw and useless. My body strains against the chain that anchors me to the ground, the metallic links biting into my neck as the leather collar sears my raw skin. My hands, bloodied and shaking, pull futilely at the chain, but the weight is unyielding.

The sharp scent of metal and sweat clings to me, thick in the stale air. My mouth is dry, the thirst clawing at my throat likesandpaper, and my stomach growls angrily, hollow and aching. I feel weaker with every passing second, each attempt to fight back draining the last vestiges of strength I have left.

On the screen, Ren strides toward the camera, his smirk wide and gleaming like a blade. His bare chest glistens with sweat, and the satisfied curve of his lips makes me sick. A true predator.

The screen cuts to black, plunging me into silence. The oppressive quiet presses down, magnifying the rhythmic clink of the chain as it drags against the floor when I slump forward. Fury, guilt, and helplessness churn inside me, each emotion stabbing at my already fractured mind.

Grabbing the black pouch—the one containing the gauze and ointment meant to mock me—I hurl it at the screen. It bounces off with a dull thud, the sound an insult to my effort. My throat tightens, and I clutch at my collar, my nails scraping against the leather.

“Protect her, mijo,” my mother’s voice whispers from the depths of my memory, soft and haunting.“She’s not like you. Es una rosa, delicada.”A rose. Delicate.

I let out a guttural growl, slamming my fists into my head as if I could drive her words away. The hunger, the thirst, the pain—they’re nothing compared to the suffocating weight of my failure. My naked body slumps forward, the cold tiles sending a shiver up my spine.

I claw at the grout between the tiles, my nails digging deep until they crack and bleed. The sharp sting is a welcome distraction, the pain grounding me when the rest of the world feels like it’s slipping away.

A sob erupts from my throat, raw and broken. It wracks my body, shaking me to the core. I can’t protect her. Not like this. I see her face—her body limp, her blood painting Ren’s canvas in a grotesque masterpiece.

“Never,” I whisper, my voice a weak promise to the memory of her smile.

I slump lower, my forehead pressing against the tiles. The chain rattles softly as I shift, the collar’s edge biting into the tender, raw skin of my neck. Every tug feels like fire, but I pull anyway, desperate to move, desperate to feel anything other than this suffocating despair.

My nails dig deeper into the grout, staining the white cracks with streaks of red. “I will end you,” I mutter, the words a vow spoken to the cold air, to the camera I know still watches.

Ren can do whatever he wants to me. Break me. Starve me. Hurt me.

But Gabriela? Never.

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