Page 73 of Painter's Obsession

I slow the car and roll down the window, forcing a smile to my lips.

“How much to show me a good time?” I ask, my voice calm, almost casual.

She turns, her acrylic nails playing with her hair as her gaze meets mine. There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, the kind that suggests she’s seen men like me a thousand times before.

“For you?” she coos, leaning closer, her voice syrupy sweet. “For you, baby, free.”

She saunters toward the passenger side, hips swaying, confidence dripping from every step.

Easy.

Pulling into my driveway, I open the app, the camera feed flickering to life. Byron sits in the center of the room, the collar around his neck gleaming under the dim light, the chain attached to the ground taut as he leans forward, one leg perched up and the other planted firmly. As he snacks on a piece of protein bar, smart move to ration it off. Yet he remains unmoving, defiant even in captivity.

You would think he would have given in but now. I’ve taken care of him, even when he wasn’t awake to see it. Loosening his restraints to keep his blood flowing, feeding him so he doesn’t waste away. He’s mine. He should be grateful. Yet he continuesto rebel against me. I exit out the app and place the phone back into my pocket.

I glance at my lovely flower in the passenger seat. Her body lies limp, yet her eyes, wide and brimming with tears, reveal that she feels everything. She can’t move—her body betraying her—but the terror is alive in her gaze, her shallow breaths, her tears carving black streaks through her mascara.

“You’re in good hands,” I murmur, my hand grazing her inked thigh, my thumb brushing over the moon-and-sun tattoo etched into her skin. My touch lingers, savoring her stillness. She doesn’t flinch, but only because she can’t.

Tonight’s lesson is about creation. Devotion. Complete and utter submission. Byron will understand, even if I have to drag him into the void myself.

I click off my seatbelt and step out of the car, the anticipation buzzing beneath my skin. Circling to the passenger side, I open her door. She groans faintly, the sound barely audible, her paralysis rendering her body useless.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I coo, unclipping her seatbelt with deliberate care. Lifting her effortlessly, I sling her over my shoulder. Her weight presses against me, warm and pliant, her helplessness fueling my resolve.

The whistle I hum cuts through the night as I carry her through the house and out the back door. The path to the studio feels alive, electric with the promise of what’s to come. It’s been too long since I’ve made something worth breaking.

At the studio door, I shift her weight, freeing my hand to press against the scanner. The lock clicks open, and I step inside.

There he is, Byron—chained, restrained, and utterly mine.

The thick collar around his neck gleams, the long chain rattling faintly as he shifts. It’s bolted to the ground, giving him some freedom to move but never enough to escape. He sitsstiffly, his head tilted slightly toward the floor, refusing to look at me.

“Honey, I’m home,” I announce, my voice sing-song, mocking.

He doesn’t react.

I clear my throat, stepping further into the room.

“The fuck do you want?” he growls, his voice low and hoarse, dragged from him like broken glass scraping against stone.

Slowly, his head turns toward me, and his eyes land on the limp figure slung over my shoulder. For a moment, his breath catches, his entire body tensing. Then his eyes widen, and there it is—the reaction I’ve been waiting for.

Fear.

I grin and smack her ass sharply, the sound cracking through the room. Her body twitches faintly, a soft groan escaping her lips.

“I got us something,” I say, stepping closer. “We’re going to bond tonight, Byron. I’ll show you what I do. What I create.”

His head shakes slowly at first, then more frantically as he struggles to his feet. The chain rattles against the floor, pulling taut as he reaches the edge of his allowed space.

“What the fuck? I’m not helping you,” he spits, his voice rising with anger.

I lower her carefully to the ground, arranging her limp body like a canvas, her teary eyes tracking my every move.

“You are,” I reply, calm and measured. “If you don’t, next time it’ll be Gabriela.”

Her name hangs in the air like a threat, and I see the impact hit him like a blow. He freezes, his breathing uneven, his fists clenched at his sides.

---