Page 59 of Painter's Obsession

Behind her, Ren steps forward, his face obscured by shadows, a knife gleaming in his hand.

“Don’t beg, Thorn,” he says, his tone cold, detached. “It’s unbecoming.”

The blade flashes. Blood sprays. It’s warm and sticky, splattering across my hands, my face.

I look down, and her head is in my lap. Her lifeless eyes stare up at me, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

“NO!” I scream, the sound finally ripping free from my throat.

I jolt awake, my body convulsing as if trying to shake off the nightmare. My chest heaves, the sweat-soaked sheets clinging to my skin. The room tilts and spins, and the shadows on the walls seem to pulse and crawl, their movements erratic and wrong.

“Calm down,” Ren’s voice cuts through the chaos, smooth and steady.

My eyes snap to him. He’s sitting by the bed, his expression calm, almost bored, a damp rag in his hand.

“You’re safe,” he says, pressing the rag to my forehead.

Safe.

The word feels like a lie, like it’s mocking me.

My gaze darts around the room, searching for Gabriela, for the blood, for anything real. But there’s nothing. Just the dim light, the faint hum of the IV, and Ren’s unreadable face.

“Where—“ I choke on the word, my throat raw and burning.

Ren leans forward, his onyx eyes gleaming in the dim light, sharp and predatory. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low and calm. “It’s just the fever. You’re safe. For now.”

His words echo in my head, blending with the ghostly images of Gabriela’s lifeless eyes and my father’s voice.

Safe.

I don’t believe him.

Chapter Thirty Three

Ren

It took a while for my Thorn to fall back asleep. The medicine seems to be doing its job, pulling him back into the haze of fever dreams. Who would’ve known I’d be good at playing nurse? Be good at caring for someone other than myself. But I guess it should be expected, coming from someone like me.

I step into the room, using the black towel to dry off my hair as I lean against the door frame, watching his chest rise and fall. The faint hum of the IV fills the silence, a monotonous reminder of the lengths I’ve gone to keep him alive. I should probably get some rest, but instead, I’ve been sketching him.

The urges claw at me, relentless. The need to consume him, immortalize him, keep him as mine forever. But I can’t—not yet.

I’m intrigued.

I want to know more about the man who’s become a pain in my ass, the same man who shares my darkness.

Maybe I just want a friend.

The thought makes me laugh under my breath, low and bitter.A friend. What an absurd notion. Growing up, my psychiatrist told my mother I needed friends. That didn’t last long. The doctor was fired, and my mother taught me her own lessons instead.

I push off the door frame, the towel slipping from my fingers to the floor. My bare feet carry me toward his sleeping form, each step deliberate and quiet. Byron’s face is peaceful, serene, and free of the tension and defiance that usually define him.

I kneel beside him, my fingers hovering above his lips before I give in, tracing the small zigzag scar above them.

“What is it about you?” I whisper, my voice soft, almost reverent. The air feels thick, pressing, or maybe it’s all in my head or how my heart increases in rhythm. What an odd reaction.

“Is it the fact that we both have shitty parents? No, that can’t be it. I’ve met plenty of people with shitty parents.” My finger trails lower, moving down the line of his jaw as I inch closer, my face hovering just above his. “Where we’re alike is here.”

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