Page 44 of Painter's Obsession

Slipping one leg and then the other from my pants, I watch as his hands ball into fists. I bet if I get close enough, he’ll land one.Feral. Wild. Animal.I fucking love it. Who would have known?

“Where is she?”

Rolling my eyes, I focus my attention on the counter, grabbing the mason jars that still hold the blood and brain matter fromthe mini fridge. The glass feels cold against my palms, the contents inside sluggishly shifting. The blood, thick and dark, coats the insides of its jar in a slow ripple, while the brain matter clings to the glass in chunks, pale gray with streaks of deep red. A masterpiece in its own right.

Naked, with the two mason jars in hand, I walk to my Thorn placing them on the floor with deliberate care.

“ANSWER ME!” he growls, his voice raw and guttural, sending a bolt straight to my cock. He’s lucky that I find him intriguing; if not, he wouldn’t have a tongue. Maybe I’ll cut it out anyway and pickle it in another jar—a keepsake. My collection could use something personal.

“REN!”

“That’s my name. Again, she’s safe. Should be home by now.”

The rattle of the chains stops, and I continue my path to the water line in the back. Grabbing the hose, the green bucket, and my favorite lavender soap, I take a deep breath. The faint, sharp scent of bleach still lingers, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the rancid stench of sweat and waste.

I grab a new washcloth, the fabric soft against my fingers, and begin to fill the bucket with water. As the hose gushes, I squeeze a generous amount of soap into the bucket, creating a frothy, soapy mixture. The scent of lavender rises, sharp and sweet, masking the stench for a moment.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, so I’ll try to be as clear as possible. You disobey, she dies. And I’ll make sure to craft her into a nice wax figure to keep you company.”

I cock my head to the side, my gaze moving to my two favorite pieces in the room. My first one—a perfect flower—always reminds me of my mother. The other, a failure, is the one who left me with the imperfection running down my thigh. The long ragged scar left from the flower that almost got away. I didn’t know that something as simple as paintbrush can be used asweapon. I got too cocky and careless which led her to stab my thigh but she didn’t make it far. There’s no escaping me, not in these woods.

Byron’s eyes widen as I drop the bucket before him, my gaze drifting down to his length. Thick, veiny, and raw. His cock looks swollen, blood slipping down the seams of the stitches.

“Have you cleaned it?” I ask, my tone steady, though the sight sends a wicked thrill through me.

He shakes his head.No.

Great. It looks like I’ll have to worry about infection at this rate. “Another thing,” I say, bending down and submerging the cloth into the cold, soapy mixture. “I ask questions, and you reply, verbally.”

The rag drips as I lift it out of the bucket, the water running over my knuckles in rivulets. I begin my work, starting with his legs. Byron’s body tenses as the rag moves up his inked calf, a dagger slicing through a bloody heart. The cold water shocks his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I can shower myself,” he says, his voice thick, heavy with defiance.

I look up at him through my lashes, watching as his cock betrays him, twitching faintly despite himself. Oh. He likes me on my knees. A smirk tugs at my lips, but I prefer the latter.

Ignoring his statement, I continue, my dick hardening between my legs as I work on his other leg. The lavender scent wafts upward, a sharp contrast to the filth and blood surrounding us.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say, my voice low, testing his limits.

Byron’s jaw tightens, the chain rattling faintly as he shifts. “You think this scares me? You’re the one on your knees.”

My fingers tighten around the cloth, my smile sharpening. “I don’t have to scare you to own you.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Byron

Iclench my teeth together, my body taut, every muscle screaming against the tension. I try to focus on anything but him on his knees in front of me as he cleans me up, so fucking slowly. The rag drags against my skin, leaving trails of cold water that send shivers crawling down my spine. My chest tightens, and I force myself to think of anything else—anything but the humiliation burning in my veins.

Suddenly, my body runs cold, and the pain of my cock from the erection twists into something darker—twisted ecstasy. This is bad. So fucking bad.

He’s going to notice—he has to notice my cock twitching with excitement. Because I’m fucking sick. I want him, no matter what excuse I try to conjure. Because I’m sick... I’m not a man.

Warm hands suddenly grab my cock, the sharp pain shooting through me like a live wire. My breath hitches, my chesttightening as his grip hardens. The shame burns like acid, pooling in my stomach.

“I told you I don’t like to repeat myself,” he sneers, his voice dripping with malice. The mask slips entirely, revealing the void underneath. His onyx eyes, flat and soulless, bore into mine, their darkness suffocating. I swear I can feel him peeling back the layers of my resolve, digging into me like he owns me.

I gnash my teeth harder, every muscle straining, as he continues to apply pressure around the swollen head of my cock. I don’t have to look down to know—Ren is holding my erection firm in his grasp.

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