Page 71 of Painter's Obsession

The trailer sits in darkness, the rain hammering against its metal roof, a relentless drumbeat that matches the pounding in my chest. It’s almost too perfect, like nature itself is conspiringwith me. I wait, scanning the street for movement, but it remains deserted.

Time to create.

I slip into my black thermal, cargo pants, and boots. The mask comes next—metallic black, smooth and featureless. It will distort my voice, turning me into something unrecognizable, something monstrous. Leather gloves slide over my hands, completing the transformation.

My eyes fall on the switchblade resting on the console, the blade catching a sliver of moonlight. It’s a small, sharp thing, but it’ll be enough. I grab it and step out into the rain, creeping toward the back of the trailer.

On my last visit, I noticed the back lock didn’t latch properly. I’d come then as a guest, polite and unassuming, while Byron was away and Gabriela showered. I’d explored the space, cataloging its weaknesses. Now, that loose lock becomes my entrance.

The door creaks open with ease, and I slip inside, closing it behind me. The trailer smells of food, warmth, and her—a suffocating mix that sets my teeth on edge.

I move through the cramped hallway, each step deliberate. Thunder cracks outside, masking the faint creak of the floor under my boots. Her bedroom door is slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling out. It’s all too cinematic, too cliché.

But clichés work for a reason.

I push the door open and step inside. She’s sprawled on her stomach, a bat resting against the far side of the bed. Her nude-colored nails grip the handle loosely, as though she knows she needs it even in sleep. Her cheeky blue shorts ride high, exposing the curve of her ass, and her white T-shirt is bunched up, revealing the tramp stamp she got one drunken night—a pair of angel wings.

Her hair is perfectly braided, each strand meticulously in place. She’s so much like Byron—just softer, more delicate. Beautiful, like a diamond.

My Rose, without her Thorn.

Too bad I plucked it, leaving her exposed to predators like me. There’s no protection. There’s no escape. Only darkness.

The switchblade feels heavy in my hand as I approach the bed. I drag it up her leg, pressing just enough to leave a mark. She murmurs, swatting at me in her sleep, but then I press harder. A line of crimson beads under the blade, blossoming like a stroke of paint on a canvas.

She jerks awake, gasping, the knife biting deeper into her skin. Her brown eyes widen, and for a moment, she doesn’t scream. Then her lips part.

I’m faster.

My gloved hand clamps over her mouth, cutting off the sound.

“Scream, and I’ll carve your throat open,” I hiss, my voice distorted by the mask. “I’ll bring your head to your brother as a gift.”

Her body goes rigid beneath me, trembling like a caught bird. She shakes her head frantically, her tears soaking into my glove.

Good girl.

I release my hand, the gloves glistening with her tears, as it moves up her trembling leg, detouring toward her center. She slams her legs shut, her body recoiling.

“NO,” she whimpers, her voice breaking like glass.

I don’t care. Why not enjoy this moment? I don’t plan on touching her—not really. I want him.

But she must die.

Only her death will break him, shatter his will so I can mold him into something exquisite. A masterpiece. Still, I’ll keep her—a rose immortalized in my garden, a perfect bloom forever frozen in its beauty.

“Do you want him to die?” I ask, tapping her leg lightly with the blade.

She shakes her head frantically, her brown eyes wide with panic. Tears streak her face, shimmering like the rain pounding against the trailer.

“Then open up.”

Gabriela’s legs fall apart slowly, reluctantly, as a sob escapes her lips. Her entire body trembles like a leaf caught in the storm. For a fleeting moment, I catch the spark of rebellion in her eyes. She’s calculating, planning. But before her hand can move toward the bat, I strike.

The blade sinks into the inside of her thigh—not too deep, just enough to paint a thin line of red. The sharp cry that escapes her lips is almost satisfying.

“Toss it to the side,” I order, my voice low and commanding.

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