Page 54 of Painter's Obsession

“Ren,” I try to shout, but my voice is a pitiful croak, weak and ineffectual, swallowed by the suffocating stillness of the room.

“You need some antibiotics,” a voice answers, cutting through the haze.

The sound jolts me. It’s too familiar, too wrong. My breath hitches as I lift my head, the effort like dragging myself out of quicksand. She’s there, chained beside me. Naked. Her brown curls fall over her shoulders, her golden skin now pallid and slick with sweat. Her eyes—those green eyes that once danced with life—are now empty, vacant, yet they pierce through me all the same.

“Theresita?” I croak, my throat too dry for more than a whisper.

Her cold hand brushes against my cheek, her touch clammy and lifeless. “You have a fever,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational, as if this is all perfectly normal. Her hand moves to my forehead. “Yep, definitely a fever.”

She leans closer, the chains rattling softly as she shifts. The sound crawls under my skin. “This is bad, Byron,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a faint, almost playful smile.

I close my eyes, the fever making my eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Her cold, clammy hand trails down my face, over my neck, and across my chest, stopping just above my dick.

“What—“ I begin, but the words die in my throat as her hand grips the head of my cock.

The pain is immediate, sharp, and searing. A guttural growl escapes my lips, low and broken, as her grip tightens. The pressure grows unbearable, and I writhe weakly, my body too fevered and weak to fight back.

Her laughter slices through the air, high and manic, reverberating off the walls like a chorus of ghosts.

“You’re going to break, Byron,” she whispers, her voice dripping with twisted glee. Her fingers tighten further, the coldness of her touch a cruel contrast to the heat of the infection. “But first, I’ll show you just how weak you really are.”

I try to twist away, but my body refuses to cooperate. The fever is a vice, pressing down on me, making every movement a herculean effort. Her hand doesn’t relent, her grip a torment that sends flashes of white-hot pain up my spine.

“You’ve always been pathetic,” she says, her voice soft now, almost tender. Her free hand brushes the damp hair from my forehead. “Even when we were kids, always crying, always needing someone to save you.” Her lips twitch into a smirk. “And now, look at you. Still helpless. Still needing someone to save you.”

Her words cut deeper than the pain, and I choke back a sob, refusing to let her see the tears that are threatening to spill.

“I tried to save you once,” she says, her tone shifting, heavy with mockery. “But you wouldn’t let me. You chose this, Byron. You chose to be broken.”

The chains rattle again as she shifts, leaning closer. Her breath is icy against my fevered skin, and I swear I can feel her lips brush against my ear.

“You don’t deserve to be saved,” she whispers.

The room spins, the fever dragging me under, but her laughter lingers, sharp and jagged, like glass splinters digging into myskull. My vision blurs, and the pain in my cock is the last thing I feel before the darkness swallows me whole.

Chapter Thirty One

Ren

Ipull into the driveway just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten since lunch, and my mind drifts to the stack of court cases waiting for me. Dinner can wait—so can the paperwork. I reach into my pocket, sliding out my phone, and unlock it with a quick flick of my thumb.

The blue app on my screen opens to a live feed of the studio cameras. Habit, mostly. But this time, I stop cold.

Byron’s body convulses on the ground, his muscles jerking violently. Sweat gleams on his skin, pooling beneath him like a second layer. Zooming in, I see the fever flush staining his cheeks and the glisten of his labored breaths.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving open the car door and slamming it shut behind me.

I half-jog to the studio, the grass crunching beneath my shoes, my pulse thrumming faster with every step. I scan my hand over the keypad, the door clicking open with a mechanical hiss.

The air inside is stifling, thick with the sour tang of sweat and something sharper—decay, maybe. The metallic scent makes my nose twitch, and my stomach knots.

Sure enough, my pet lies on the ground, curled in on himself like a wounded animal. His chest heaves, each breath shallow and desperate.

I approach quickly, using my foot; I nudge him onto his back, and his head lolls to the side, limp and unresponsive. His skin burns like a furnace beneath the sole of my shoe.

“What’s wrong with you?” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended.

“There...” he croaks, his voice thin and rasping. “Stop… p-please.”

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