Page 43 of Painter's Obsession

“Theresa!” she shouts, as though the name should mean something to me.

It doesn’t. She was just another flower in my garden, her purpose fulfilled the moment she delivered Byron to me. And what a beautiful Thorn she delivered.

“Is she a friend?” I probe, needing more, desperate for the delicious sight of her tears.

“She was my friend,” she snaps, her voice sharp with anger and pain. Her eyes meet mine, brimming with grief and accusation. “She served you at the diner. Do people mean so little to you?”

Her words sting, not because they’re true, but because I may have played my part too casually. I let my face soften, tilting my head in mock guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice heavy with feigned regret. “Is there anything I can do?”

I step closer, closing the distance between us. She wipes her tears with the palm of her hand, smearing her makeup further. But then she stands abruptly, creating space between us.

“I need to get back home,” she says abruptly, her voice shaking as she sniffles.

“I can drop you off. I’m free,” I offer, keeping my tone gentle.

She shakes her head, avoiding my gaze. “No, I’ll Uber,” she says coldly, her words clipped.

Her sudden detachment confuses me. I move closer again, reaching out to wipe away a stray tear trailing down her cheek. She stiffens at my touch, just briefly.

“How can I help?” I ask, my voice soft.

“I just need to be alone, Ren,” she whispers, her hand coming to rest on mine. Her touch is warm, trembling, fragile. “I need my brother. He was her friend.”

I nod, selling the dream of understanding. “Okay. Can I at least order the Uber for you?”

She nods, her composure crumbling again as she sniffles again and wipes at her face. She tries to hold herself together, but her tears keep slipping free. And I savor every last one.

From the driveway, I wave at Gabriela as she steps into the black SUV. She doesn’t look back, her hair catching the sunlight like a halo. I wish I could freeze the moment, tuck it away in my mind for safekeeping. But for now, I’ll create.

The need courses through me like wildfire, burning every thought into ash except her. Whistling softly, I stroll back into the house and head straight to the kitchen. My hands move automatically, grabbing rye bread, lettuce, mayo, and honey ham from the fridge. The sandwich takes shape under my fingers, methodical, precise, like everything I do.

The rhythm of my whistling fills the silence, my body thrumming with anticipation. Once I’m done, I slide the sandwich onto a small white plate, put everything back, and grab a bottle of spring water. The ordinary act grounds me, though my mind is already elsewhere.

Shoes slick with dew, I cross the yard to the back house. The air is heavy with mingling scents—blood, human waste, and the faint, sharp tang of bleach. The familiar cocktail hits me as I scan my way in, the door clicking softly behind me.

And there he is. My Thorn.

He’s a mess, all bloody and battered, but his eyes aren’t broken. Not yet. No, those dark eyes burn with defiance, wildand animalistic. His chains clink as he strains against them, his bare chest heaving.

“Where is she?” he growls, voice low and threatening.

Ignoring him, I walk to the counter and set the sandwich and bottle down. My movements are slow, deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me, tracking my every step.

“Where is she?” he demands again, his tone sharp enough to cut.

I unbutton my shirt, one button at a time, my gaze fixed on his naked body. The red, inflamed burn from the collar encircles his neck like a macabre necklace, a reminder of his place. His hands, bruised and bloody, twitch in frustration. Even his cock, swollen and raw, betrays his struggles.

“Safe,” I reply calmly, peeling the shirt from my shoulders. “Unlike you.”

His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, but I see it—the brief flicker of something in his eyes as they roam over my bare skin. His defiance is admirable, almost beautiful in its futility.

“You need to clean up,” I say, circling a finger in the air to gesture at him and the room. “This place stinks.Youstink.”

The chain rattles as he surges forward, stopping short with a grunt of frustration. His voice is a snarl now, feral and dripping with venom. “Where is she?”

I tsk. “This isn’t how this works.” I begin to undo my belt, annoyed with the defiance written all over his face. I’m in control, not him. “The way this works is I make the rules,” I say, pointing at him. “You simply obey.”

---