Page 56 of Painter's Obsession

Byron shifts, his body tipping dangerously to the side. For a fleeting second, I consider letting him fall. The image of his skull cracking against the stairs flashes through my mind, vivid and satisfying. But I don’t. My grip tightens, pulling him back against me, and I feel his heat sear into my skin.

“Fucking Thorn,” I mutter under my breath.

“I’m…” he breathes again, his words trailing off. His brown eyes flicker open, glassy and unfocused, before closing once more. He’s muttering something, defending himself even in his dreams. Pathetic.

Reaching the main bathroom, I kick the door open with a sharp crack. The air inside is cool and clean, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat radiating from his fevered body. I toe off my shoes, the rubber soles squeaking against the tiles, and lower us both onto the shower floor.

The glass behind me is icy as I slump back against it, his limp body slumped against my chest. His skin burns, slick with sweat, his breaths shallow and uneven. I clap my hands, activating the water. It sprays down in a scalding torrent, and I hiss through my teeth.

“Of course,” I mutter, shifting him off me and onto the wet floor. His body slumps to the side, his face slack and pale, his lips dry and cracked. He looks broken, like a dog hit by a car and left to die on the side of the road.

And I hate it.

I hate seeing him like this. Weak. Helpless. He’s supposed to fight, to resist. To bleed beautifully for me, not like this. Not like a corpse.

Shoving the thought aside, I stand and adjust the water to its coldest setting. It cascades down in icy rivulets, steam rising as it meets the heat of his fevered skin. I crouch back down, my knees pressing against the slick tile as I drag him into my lap, his back pressed against my chest.

My hand moves to his cock, my fingers brushing over the inflamed stitches. The skin around them is swollen, red and angry, oozing with infection. Each seam strains against the pressure, like it could burst at any moment.

The cold water pounds against us, soaking through my clothes and running in rivers across his fevered body. His chest rises and falls unevenly, each breath a struggle that rattles in his throat.

“You’re a fucking mess,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. My fingers linger over the infection, the heat of it a stark contrast to the icy water. “And now add inconvenience to the list of things you already are.”

He groans softly, his head rolling back against my shoulder. For a moment, I glance down at his face—eyes fluttering beneath heavy lids, lips parted as if he’s trying to speak.

“You’ll hate me for this when you wake up,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the rush of water. “That’s good. Hate makes you fight. And I want you to fight, Thorn. I want to break you piece by piece, not like this.”

My grip tightens around his fevered girth, just enough to draw a faint whimper from him. His body shifts against mine, weak and fevered, and something sharp twists in my chest.

Even broken, he’s mine.

Every breath, every moan, every shiver belongs to me.

The infection, the fever—it’s trying to take him from me. But I won’t let it.

The water runs red as the infection oozes from his body, pooling around us like blood. I tighten my grip on his chest,holding him against me as the water grows colder, sharper. His skin burns against mine, but the fire doesn’t scare me.

“You’ll survive, Thorn,” I murmur, leaning close enough for my breath to brush his ear. “Because I won’t let you die. Not yet. “

The cold water pounds on, and I stay there, holding him in the frigid shower, waiting for the fever to break.

I adjust the cuff on the railing of my bed, ensuring it clicks securely into place. Just one cuff—for now. Control starts with small details. I need him where I can see him, monitor his recovery. Byron is special because, like me, he was broken when he came into this world, and I will show him the way.

Kevin works in silence, his black-gloved hands moving efficiently as he sets up the IV and prepares the injections. He’s a professional, the kind of man you call when legality isn’t part of the equation. No questions asked, no moral judgments. That’s why I keep him around—and because I hold enough dirt on him to ensure his loyalty.

“The medicine should clear the infection,” Kevin says, adjusting the drip with the calm precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. “I added Tylenol for the fever and pain. Keep the area dry, and apply the antibiotic ointmenttwice a day. His body will need rest, fluids, and food when he wakes.”

He pulls the blanket up to Byron’s chest, pausing to glance at the restrained wrist. “Also,” he continues, “that circumcision—“ He stops, clears his throat, and glances at me. “It’s restitched and cleaned. If the area gets irritated again, the damage could be worse.”

I nod, barely paying attention. My focus is on Byron. His chest rises and falls shallowly beneath the blanket, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his pale forehead. Even unconscious, he looks pathetic. Weak.

But he’s alive. And that’s all that matters.

Kevin strips off his gloves, tossing them into the black trash can by my nightstand. “When he wakes, make sure he eats something. The meds will be hard on his stomach.”

“I’ll handle it,” I say dismissively, my voice clipped. “Efficient as always. I’ll transfer the funds tonight. Add a tip for your trouble.”

Kevin scratches his beard, his gaze flicking to the cuff again. His hesitation is brief, but I catch it. “Hold the money for now,” he mutters. “I need a lawyer.”

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