Page 48 of Painter's Obsession

Byron doesn’t move at first. His glare pierces me, molten anger radiating off him in waves. It’s delicious. “No.” That fucking word has become the bane of my existence.

“I said kneel,” I repeat, my voice sharper now, stepping closer with the bottle in hand. “Do you not want a drink?” I ask again but this time he doesn’t respond. Not even a grunt.

Slowly, begrudgingly, he lowers himself, his muscles trembling with the effort to restrain his rage.

“Words,” I say, tilting the bottle just enough for him to see the water sloshing inside.

“Yes,” he growls, his voice strained and thick with hatred.

“Now, beg. Let me hear you say please.”

“Ple-” he begins, almost choking on the word. “Please, Ren.”

I smirk, crouching down to meet his eyes. “That wasn’t hard. You see? Already learning. A little respect goes a long way.”

He glares, but I catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes. This is how it starts—the breaking. He’ll come to me, eventually. They always do.

“You hate me now,” I murmur, my voice soft, almost tender. “But hate fades. Anger fades. What won’t fade is this—“ I hold the bottle between us, shaking it slightly. “The need. I’ll be the one to meet it. And you’ll thank me for it someday.”

His nostrils flare, and for a moment, I see it—the war raging inside him. Defiance and survival. Pride and submission.

“Good boy,” I say softly, leaning closer. “Now, open.”

I take another sip of water, letting it linger in my mouth before spitting it into his waiting mouth. His lips part reluctantly, and the water trickles in. He swallows, his throat working visibly, and I smirk. He’s learning fast. Maybe he’ll survive me after all.

Grabbing the hose, I motion to the bucket nearby. “Finish cleaning yourself up.”

This time he doesn’t argue, he just obeys, dragging the soapy cloth over his skin under my watchful gaze. His face twists with every movement, a wince here, a flinch there. Pain radiates off him like heat from a dying flame. And I fucking love it.

“What hurts?” I ask, the words spilling from my lips before I can regret them.

He freezes for a moment before snapping, “What the fuck do you care?”

Our eyes remain on each other as he scrubs his skin harder, as if trying to erase the shame, the disgust—and me. But none of that will work. I’ve left my mark, and it’s not coming off. He’s mine even if he fights it.

“You’re right, I don’t,” I reply, my tone cold again. “Next question. Why did he beat you?”

Byron stops mid-scrub, his focus shifting to me. His eyes narrow, sharp and dangerous, like a predator assessing its next move.

“Touchy subject?” I drawl, turning on the hose. The water sprays in a sharp arc, washing away the soap and grime swirlingat his feet. His eyes follow the dirty water as it spirals down the drain. I wonder what he’s thinking. Turning off the hose.

“I’ll give you another sip,” I say, tilting the bottle teasingly in my hand. “If you tell me what’s on your mind.”

At first, he doesn’t move. He stays focused on the ground, his body rigid as if rooted in place. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Why do you care?” Need always wins.

“I don’t but it’s sorta boring kidnapping someone and not talking to them.” Byron grunts. “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

“Oh, but I do. Go on. Enlighten me with your precious thoughts, Byron.” I use my hand and signal for him to continue. But he just sighs. His shoulder sags as he moves his hands to meet his gaze. He looks down at his inked hands and snickers softly before meeting my eyes again. There’s something dark and alive behind them, a flicker of the defiance I’ve become intrigued with.

“How good my hands will look with your blood coating them,” he says, his voice low, steady, and filled with venom. I bite back the urge to smile because I know that it wasn’t a lie and he meant every word he just said. And, hey, we are getting places now since he wants to touch me. I turn the hose back on and finish washing him off as well as the ground around him, consider me officially amused.

“Ahh,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “Such a violent creature you are, my Thorn.”

He frowns, confusion spreading across his features. “Thorn?”

“You got to name your pet.” I shrug, watching the anger I’ve come to be entertained with rise.

“I’m not your fucking pet. Don’t give me no damn pet name.”

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