Page 42 of Painter's Obsession

I lift my head, the world spinning as thirst and exhaustion blur the edges of my vision. The chains clink again as I move, the sound mocking my every effort. My body is weak, trembling from hunger, from thirst, from despair.

I close my eyes, and all I can see is Gabriela—her brown eyes dull and lifeless, her blood pooling beneath her like some cruel artist’s brushstroke.

“No,” I growl, the word breaking like a fractured prayer. I slam my head into the tiles, once, twice—the pain sharp and immediate. By the third strike, stars burst behind my eyes, and the world fades into merciful blackness.

Chapter Twenty Six

Ren

The only sound in the room comes from the faint rustle of my shirt’s fabric as I button up its buttons while watching as Gabriela sleeps soundly in my bed, her small form curled beneath the blanket still dressed in her clothes. I didn’t need her thinking I was a predator, someone she needed to be wary of.

I left her clothes on to show her that I’m a man of restraint. Someone she could trust and lean on.

Walking over, I kneel beside her, gently brushing the soft brown locks that fall across her face. Small freckles adorn the bridge of her nose, a detail so delicate it almost seems out of place in a world this cruel. Her eyebrows furrow, and she frowns in her sleep, her lips twitching as though caught mid-argument. A nightmare, I’m sure.

I could wake her, pull her out of whatever terror she’s trapped in. But the sight of her terrified in her sleep only makes her more beautiful. Vulnerability suits her. Her eyes dart beneath her lids,her breathing quickens, and a faint sheen of sweat dampens her brow.

“No,” she mumbles, her voice faint and trembling. “No, Byron.”

A slow smile spreads across my lips. Her words remind me it’s about time I feed my pet. He must be famished and thirsty by now, but first, I have to take care of her.

I watch her struggle a little longer, savoring the slight movements of her lips and the way her hands twitch at her sides. Then her body jolts, and she gasps awake, her chest heaving as she takes in her surroundings. Her gaze darts around the room, frantic and unfocused.

“Hey…” I murmur softly, coaxing her eyes toward me. “You’re safe, Gabby. You’re in my room.” My voice is calm and smooth, practiced.

“Ren,” she whispers, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her voice is fragile, barely above a breath. “I think there’s something wrong with Byron.”

I stand, moving away from her as the first tear slips down her cheek. The sight is almost too much, my cock twitching at the quiet despair etched across her face. But I can’t let her see that. Not yet.

Turning my back, I adjust my collar and finish getting ready for the day. “Why do you say that?” I ask, my tone casual, as though her words don’t ignite a fire within me.

“It’s just a feeling,” she says, her voice trembling. “Call it intuition. But something’s wrong. I know it.”

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, the sound slicing through the thick tension in the room. She scans the bed, her movements frantic and disoriented, her hands fumbling over the blanket.

“It’s on the nightstand,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.

Her shaking hands reach for the phone. She answers quickly. “Hola, Señora Consuelo.”

Her face pales as the voice on the other end speaks. Her lips tremble and her hand flies to her mouth, muffling a sob. Her tears gather, building behind her eyes like a dam ready to burst. And then, the dam breaks.

“No, no puede ser. It can’t be.” Her voice cracks, the words splintered by her sobs. “Not Theresita.”

The phone slips from her hands, landing on the bed with a soft thud as a sob breaks free, raw and guttural.

And my dick couldn’t be any harder.

I watch, transfixed, as the pain consumes her. A beautiful art piece, I think, admiring how the tears are streaking down her cheeks, blending with the black mascara to create jagged trails. Slowly, the light in her warm brown eyes begins to dim. The shine of hope gives way to the dull haze of despair.

I smile, shifting to cup my erection. Down, boy. The thought amuses me—my own restraint, my control.

Slipping on the mask of the caring and worried boyfriend, I turn to Gabriela. Her sobs fill the room, a perfect symphony of grief.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, feigning concern.

“There…” She gasps for air, struggling to form the words. “She’s dead.”

“Who?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to sell my confusion, careful not to rush her.

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