Painter’s Obsession

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Ren

I would like to say that being raised by a monster didn’t affect me—didn’t shape me into something similar. After all, I wasn’t my father’s prodigy. I was hers.

A faint smile curls on my lips as my pretty flower sits across from me, bathed in the golden glow of the dining room lights. Reina. Weeks of patience finally brought her here, to my table, to my luxury, to my shadow. She smells of cheap roses and vanilla, an artificial sweetness clinging to her skin like a lie she’s desperate for me to believe. Her red hair is tied into a sleek ponytail, a black dress sculpting her body in ways that whisper both modesty and temptation.

The wine glass trembles faintly in her hand as she spins the white liquid, bringing it to her glossy lips. I watch. I always watch. God, she’s beautiful. They always are. There’s something intoxicating about their beauty—their ignorance of the danger coiled in front of them like a serpent ready to strike.

“Tell me,” I murmur, my voice low, a hum of distant thunder, “do you ever think about how fragile your life is?”

She blinks, the glass pausing mid-air. Her innocent eyes widen, pupils dilating as confusion flickers through them. “What do you mean?” Her voice is soft, a tremor in the wind.

I lean forward just slightly, enough for my presence to loom. Enough for her to feel it. “How easily it could slip through your fingers,” I say, my tone velvet-wrapped steel. “One moment, you’re fine, and the next… nothing. Just a memory.”

The grandfather clock ticks in the corner, each second scraping against her silence. I see it now: the bloom of fear, spreading like ink in water, staining her chest. She feels it—the knife-edge of my smile, the storm behind my words.

“Life is fragile, isn’t it?” I ask again, a soft invitation layered in menace.

She shifts nervously, setting the glass down. “You’re…you’re intense,” she murmurs, forcing a laugh that cracks in the middle.

“Come here.” I push my chair back, patting my lap, my lips curling upward. No further explanation. My voice, my command—it draws her in like a moth to the flame. Her movements are tentative at first, the heels of her shoes clicking against marble as she rises. I watch as her dress clings to her thighs, each step revealing the soft swell of her flesh.

And I am starving.

When she stands before me, I grip her waist, nails pressing into the fabric, possessive and unyielding. Her red nails tangle into my hair as I pull her closer. “Do you want me?” I whisper, my lips grazing the edge of her stomach. I don’t wait for her answer. I don’t need it. Because it isn’t Reina I see—it’s her. The woman who turned me into this. The woman who caged me in my sickness and made me need.

My mouth presses against her dress, biting through the thin fabric where her nipple strains against it. She gasps, melting into me as I lift her onto the table, her back hitting the polished wood. “What are you doing?” she breathes, the question a blend of fear and arousal.

I spread her thighs apart, my hands firm against her trembling skin. “I’m on my period,” she stammers, cheeks flushed.

I smirk, the predator’s grin sharpening my face. “Even better,” I say, pulling at the thin strings of her sheer thong. The snap of fabric echoes through the silence. I toss it aside. The tampon string taunts me, crimson-stained and perfect. Slowly, deliberately, I pull it free, letting her blood pool where she lies.

“Stay like this.”

I move to the small buffet table, retrieving an 8x10 canvas and my smallest brushes. Tools of creation. Of worship. When I return, Reina’s breathing is shallow, her body flushed with confusion and something darker. The scent of blood mingles with roses, and I inhale deeply as I part her folds with my fingers. My thumb presses against her clit, and her body bows in response, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

“Ren…” she whispers, her voice breaking, a mixture of warning and want.

“I know,” I murmur against her lips while curling two fingers inside her. I watch her face as I move, slow and deliberate, drawing her closer to the edge. “Let me paint you.”

Her eyes widen, her lips parting to protest, but her body betrays her. Her hips lift, her muscles clench, and I pull my fingers free, blood slick against my skin. The first stroke is deliberate—a single crimson line cutting through white.

“Touch yourself,” I order, my voice hoarse, as I continue my work. She hesitates, but the hunger in her eyes gives her away. Slowly, shamefully, her fingers begin to move.

I paint in a trance, each stroke more visceral than the last, the canvas alive with her essence. Her moans blend with the scrape of my brush, a symphony of sin. When I’ve drawn enough, when my hunger becomes unbearable, I toss the brush aside.

I free my cock, and with a growl, I thrust into her. She cries out, her body jolting against the table, nearly falling, but I hold her down. Blood slicks my length, her warmth clinging to me as I move—slow, deliberate, punishing.

Her nails claw at my arms, her cries softening into whimpers. “Ren, please…” she breathes, her voice breaking.

I lean down, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her breast until copper fills my mouth. Her body shudders, and her eyes begin to glaze. The sedative in her wine finally takes hold.

I come inside her, filling her, claiming her, as her body goes slack beneath me. Her eyes, wide with terror, lock onto mine as I lean close, my breath hot against her ear.

“We will create something beautiful,” I whisper, my voice a promise and a curse.