Page 50 of Painter's Obsession

“Not until I’m done with you.” My tongue darts out, slow and deliberate, licking it off. The taste of his defiance—hot, salty, and bitter with iron—lingers on my tongue.

His grin falters, the fire in his eyes flickering like a candle struggling against the wind. His confidence cracks, just a hairline fracture, but enough. Enough to remind him who holds the leash.

Without another word, I slam my forehead into his, the sickening crack of bone-on-bone reverberating through the room. The impact leaves my vision swimming for a moment, a dull ache blooming in my skull.

I release the chain, letting him collapse onto the cold, unforgiving ground. He lands hard, his body a crumpled heap, the blood from his mouth pooling in dark streaks beneath him.

I stand over him, breathing hard, watching as he lies there. His chest heaves with labored breaths, his body trembling as he struggles to pull himself together.

His silence feels like a victory, a fleeting moment of satisfaction that sizzles in my veins. But it’s not enough. The fury still burns hot in my chest, demanding more, always more.

The room feels smaller, the air thicker. I turn on my heel, my footsteps heavy against the floor as I storm out, the echo of my steps swallowed by the suffocating dark.

Behind me, Byron remains where he fell, alone with his broken defiance. For now.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Ren

After leaving the studio, I get back in the shower and prepare once again. Perfection is part of the game, and I play it well. Now I’m on my way to my Rose. Gotta keep up appearances—it wouldn’t do to let things slip. Another flower to cultivate, another petal to pluck. My Thorn still needs work, but bending something so stubborn takes patience. I’ve got all the time in the world.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I drive into the trailer park. The sun beats down, baking the cracked pavement and dry, overgrown lawns. The air feels heavy, stagnant, like this place is trapped in time. That’s when I spot her—the redhead.

She’s talking to a neighbor, her body angled just enough to catch attention. Women like her are predictable, beautiful in that worn, desperate way, bound to kids and a loveless marriage, starving for even a scrap of acknowledgment.

I slow the car, just enough for her to notice. Our eyes lock, and her smile spreads wide, too eager, too hopeful. Ruby-red nails catch the sunlight as she raises a cigarette to her lips, her fingers trembling slightly. I nod, letting my gaze linger, a faint smile curling my lips. Her expression falters for a moment before she recovers, and I continue driving, pulling into the small parking lot.

“Call Gabriela,” I say to the car’s voice assistant. For the fourth time, it goes straight to voicemail. A sigh escapes me as I glance in the rearview mirror. The redhead bends over to pick up a discarded toy on her lawn, the light green sundress hugging her curves in just the right way.

So desperate. So easy.

With a sigh, I step out of the car, slipping off my aviator sunglasses. Her gaze stays locked on me as I walk over, her movements slowing, cautious but curious.

“Good afternoon,” I say smoothly, my voice warm and practiced. “Have you seen Gabriela?”

She shields her eyes from the sun with one hand, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. Her lips part slightly, the gloss catching the light as she answers. “Oh, hi. I saw her earlier, but she’s gone now. I think everyone’s at the diner—for the memorial for Mary Jane and Theresita.”

I nod, lightly smacking my sunglasses into my palm. “And her brother?” I ask casually, tilting my head.

Her body stiffens just enough to notice. “Byron?”

“Does she have other brothers?” I feign confusion, my tone light, curious.

She shakes her head quickly. “No, she doesn’t. I haven’t seen him around, actually.”

I inhale deeply, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. “Gabriela told me he’s been missing. Think he’s with someone?”

Her smile falters, the corners of her mouth twitching downward. Her shoulders stiffen, and her eyes dart to the side. Another petal is plucked. It wouldn’t take much to finish her off.

“Maybe,” she says, her voice thinner now, brittle. “Who knows?”

I tilt my head, studying her carefully. Her body shifts slightly, her arms crossing over her chest as if to shield herself. “You know him well, don’t you?”

“Not really,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to the ground.

“That’s odd,” I say, my tone thoughtful, almost teasing. “I could’ve sworn I saw you on your knees for him.”

Her body jerks slightly, her discomfort radiating off her like heat. The cigarette trembles in her hand, and she shifts her weight, looking like she might bolt.

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