Painter’s Obsession

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Ren

“ S hh...” The familiar voice snakes through the air, thick with lust. Her red nails trace a path down my abs, leaving invisible marks I can feel. I don’t look down. I can’t. My eyes remain fixed on the image ahead—my favorite piece of art. The one I made with my blood.

Red swirls dance across the canvas, hypnotic and chaotic, like emotions I don’t understand. A walking contradiction—that’s what I am. Can you blame me? Not after this. I hiss, my breath sharp, as her tongue swirls around the tip of my cock.

“Good boys need teaching,” she whispers against my skin as she kisses my flesh. “Let me teach you how to be a man.” Her lessons were her touch, her teeth, her nails. And I always obeyed. “My beautiful boy,” she hums, nails digging into my skin, branding me, claiming me.

The nightmare ends with the sound of birds.

The tinny voice of a weather announcer blares through the darkness, pulling me out of the nightmare like a fisherman reeling in his catch. I jolt upright in bed, my body clammy and sweat-soaked, chest heaving. The sheets are twisted like ropes of a crime scene.

“She’s dead,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. Over and over, I repeat it like a prayer as I shove black hair away from my forehead. I burn inside—this hot, blistering need to purge, to create. It claws at me like an itch under the skin. But there’s no time for that today.

Today, I have to go to Laguna Bay. Mandatory pro bono work.

The only good thing my father ever did before he blew his brains out.

Ren Sato Jr. The Ren Sato. A prodigy, they say.

But my father—Ren Sato Sr.—wasn’t just a prodigy. He was charming, kind, resourceful... enviable. In his short, illustrious life, the man became a lawyer, built a top firm, became a prosecutor, and then a judge. All before he chose the barrel of a gun as his final gavel.

Did he want to escape her, too? The thought slithers through me like poison. I shake it off. I’m not him. I’m not weak.

When sickness rots you from the inside, you have to kill what’s causing it. And I did.

I groan as I swing my legs out of bed. I stalk toward my bathroom fully naked, my cock stiff and demanding in my hand. I need release, and I need it soon. But first, work.

The cold tile floor jolts me awake as I step under the shower, the water scalding against my skin. I scrub hard, washing away the remnants of her touch, of the nightmare, but she lingers, burned into me like a scar that won’t heal.

Once dressed in a tailored black suit and a dark blue button-down, I grab my leather briefcase, stuffed with files for today’s cases. The house groans as I move through it, my footsteps echoing against the vintage Gothic decor.

This house is mine, a sprawling, haunted masterpiece of black stone and tragedy. I bought it because no one else would. Whispers of horrors that happened within these walls scare others off, but not me. I grew up with a monster; this house doesn’t frighten me.

It welcomes me.

The silence is my only companion as I walk through the dim halls. Loneliness hums in every step, but I’ve grown accustomed to it.

Downstairs, the morning light begins to seep through the tall, arched windows, casting faint streaks of gold across the polished tiles. My fingers curl around my car keys as I head into the garage, clapping twice to activate the motion lights. My Mercedes sits waiting, sleek and black, a reflection of my life. Controlled. Polished. Empty.

Today isn’t just about pro bono work.

Today, I’ll see her.

My future flower.

The thought spreads a slow smile across my face as I slide into the leather seat, the engine purring to life at the press of a button. I grip the steering wheel, exhaling a long, slow breath before pulling out of the garage and into the waking world.

The morning stretches out before me and, for the first time in a while, I don’t mind.

After battling the first rush of traffic, I pull into the diner’s cracked asphalt lot, the morning air still thick with twilight. Through the window, I watch the blonde waitress, Sandra, talking with the brunette, Theresa. Both women look wrung out, shadows clinging under their eyes.

I let out a long sigh, adjusting my tie as I step out of the car. Routine. There’s something comforting in repetition. The doorbell chimes above me, a sharp, hollow sound.

“Morning, Mr. Sato! The usual?” Sandra chirps, a bright smile masking her fatigue as she heads for the service window.

“Yes, please,” I reply evenly, sliding into my usual booth. The torn red leather cracks beneath me, familiar and imperfect like everything else here.

From my seat, I overhear Sandra whispering to Theresa.

“Two eggs, sunny-side up, toast slice, black coffee —three sugars,” Sandra recites mechanically to the cook before lowering her voice.

“How long do you think he’ll get this time?” Theresa leans closer, voice hushed but biting. “Who cares? He violated probation. Better he’s locked up—finally. I’m done with him.”

A spark of curiosity flares, unbidden, and I tune in more closely. Sandra’s shoulders tighten, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her tough exterior.

Her ex, then. Interesting. For a moment, I consider her beautiful, sharp marred by shadows that follow her like a storm. A tempting distraction. But my attention shifts back to the real reason I’m here. My little flower—the woman with the doe eyes and fragile innocence that practically glows. Sandra’s chaos doesn’t interest me; I crave light, something pure enough to ruin.

I flip open my briefcase and spread Byron Lopez’s case file across the table.

The clatter of porcelain jolts me as hot coffee spills across my papers.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry!” Sandra stammers, scrambling for napkins.

I arch a brow, more amused than annoyed. “Are you alright?”

She sets the pot down, exhaling shakily. “No… I—uh, that’s my ex. Byron Lopez. I guess you’re his lawyer.” Her voice drops, tinged with something I can’t place—fear, regret, disgust?

Perfect .

“I guess I am,” I reply coolly, though a strange hum settles in my chest. This is no coincidence. Fate doesn’t deal coincidences to men like me.

Sandra’s gaze lingers a moment longer, searching for something I don’t offer, then she walks away. Good . I finish my breakfast in silence, the hour slipping past as I wait, hoping to catch a glimpse of my little flower. But she never comes. Disappointment gnaws at me like a stray dog, but there’s no time to dwell. Duty calls.

Byron Lopez awaits me in chains.

The courthouse smells like sweat and stale paper. I nod to the officers by the metal detectors, their greetings blending into white noise.

“Good morning, Mr. Sato.”

“Morning, fellas,” I reply, flashing a hollow smile. They watch the briefcase scan through the X-ray—black leather, hard edges, hiding sharp intentions. But nothing out of the ordinary, only files for an endless stream of criminals. Grabbing it, I make my way up the stairs. Elevators? Never. Some phobias die hard.

Ten minutes later, the familiar sounds of rattling chains, curses, and heavy boots fill the hallway.

Showtime.

I adjust my cuffs and open the door to the small, sterile office space. The guards bring him in—a presence so sharp it cuts through the room like a blade. He drops into the chair across from me with all the grace of a caged animal. Buzzed hair, light brown skin, scar splitting his Cupid’s bow and muscles straining against the orange jumpsuit. The chains clink with every breath he takes. He radiates defiance—rage barely contained beneath his scarred skin.

Beautiful.

“You must be Byron Lopez.” My voice is steady, detached. “I’m Ren Sato. I’ve taken your case pro-bono.”

He grunts, jaw flexing. I place a manila folder in front of him and slide it across the table like a loaded gun.

“The prosecutor’s offer is two years in state prison, mandatory classes, and therapy,” I say, calm as a priest delivering last rites.

Byron’s lip curls. “I ain’t doin’ therapy.” His voice is like gravel dragging across concrete.

I lean back, studying him. Men like him only understand one thing: leverage. I smile faintly, like I’ve already won.

“You were caught with enough cash and product to bury you for five years. Take this deal, Byron, or wait for trial. By then, your family will be wondering if they’ll ever see you again.”

The word “family” hangs heavy between us, twisting his scowl into something darker. Good. I push the pen in front of him, watching him wrestle with it like a weapon he doesn’t know how to wield.

He hesitates. His chains rattle against the metal table, each sound sharpening the heat pooling in my gut.

I watch. I wait.

Struggle for me.

Finally, he snatches the pen and scratches his name across the bottom line.

As soon as it’s done, he shoves the file back and calls for the guard, like the air in this room is suffocating him. He doesn’t look back.

Coward .

I linger for a moment, my fingers brushing the spot where his hand had been. My cock stirs with the faintest throb, my mind painting him stripped, bound, and helpless. A masterpiece begging to be finished—my Achilles, brought low.

As the door slams shut, a smile curls at the corner of my mouth.

Today, I got his signature. Soon, I’ll take more.