Page 55 of Painter's Obsession

His words dissolve into a garbled moan as another spasm wracks his body. My gaze drops to his cock, and there it is—the angry, swollen infection radiating from the stitches. The skin is raw, puffy, and glistening with heat.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. “Of course it’s infected,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking useless.”

Crossing the room, I grab the keys to his chain from their hook, the metal cool against my palm. Turning back, I pause, watching him convulse weakly on the ground. For a moment, I consider leaving him. Let the fever fry his brain, let the infection take him—it would save me the trouble. But the sound he makes, a strangled whimper halfway between a sob and a gasp, lodges itself in my chest.

“Goddamn it,” I hiss, kneeling beside him.

“You know,” I say, slipping the key into the collar around his neck, “your nickname is fitting. You’ve become a thorn in my ass.”

The lock clicks, and I pull the collar free, revealing the red, irritated skin beneath. For a moment, I stare at it, at the angry imprint it’s left on his neck, and something sharp and unwelcome twists in my chest.

“You’ve been such…” I trail off, shaking my head as I shove the collar aside. “Such a fucking pain.”

I grab his upper body, his weight sagging against me as I haul him upright. His head droops onto my shoulder, his breath hot and damp against my neck. His skin is searing, like holding a live coal in my arms.

He groans, his body tipping sideways, and I adjust my grip to keep him upright.

“I got you,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

The words taste foreign on my tongue, too soft, too caring. What the fuck am I doing? I break things. I ruin them. That’s who I am. That’s all I’ve ever been.

But here I am, carrying him like some goddamn savior.

His fevered body feels impossibly heavy as I drag him toward the main house, every step an effort. The chains clink faintly behind us, the sound swallowed by his labored breathing and my own pounding heart.

By the time I kick the door open, my arms are trembling from the strain. I haul him inside, the cool air hitting me like a slap. He groans again, barely conscious, his head lolling against my chest.

For a moment, I stand there, holding him, feeling the heat radiate off his body like a furnace. He’s limp, pathetic, but alive. Barely.

“Don’t make me regret this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

The words echo in the empty room as I lower him onto the couch, his fevered skin leaving damp patches on the fabric. His chest rises and falls erratically, each breath a struggle.

I stand over him, watching as he writhes weakly, his lips moving soundlessly. Whatever he’s saying is lost to the fever, to the delirium clawing at his mind.

And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the urge to fix him.

It’s infuriating.

It’s fucking terrifying.

I shake my head, stepping back and running a hand through my hair.

“You better survive this, Thorn,” I mutter, turning toward the kitchen. “I’m not done with you yet.”

After making a few calls to secure antibiotics—nothing money can’t fix—I haul Byron over my shoulder again. His body radiates heat like a furnace, each breath a shallow, ragged rasp that barely moves his chest. His weight sags against me, dead and heavy.

“I forgive,” he mutters, voice slurred and weak. “Mama…”

I pause, my grip tightening instinctively. His fevered words claw at something buried deep, a memory I don’t want. How quaint—asking for his mommy, dreaming of forgiveness. For a moment, I wonder what it’s like to be loved like that. To have someone who would fight for you. To be cherished, protected.

But the thought evaporates as quickly as it comes.

I was loved. I was cared for.

She made sure of that. My mother gave me everything, taught me everything. She showed me how to be Ren Sato, in every sense of the name. My success, my power, my control—I owe it all to her.

And I don’t need forgiveness.

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