Painter’s Obsession

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Ren

G abriela cries softly in my arms, her trembling body pressed against mine as my fingers trail gentle circles along her back, trying to soothe her. The humiliation of her big brother walking in on us like that has shattered her, leaving her raw and vulnerable. But this? This is nothing that soft caresses and even softer words can’t mend. My little Rose is such a fragile thing—beautiful and delicate—but her Thorn? Ah, her Thorn is the real challenge.

He’s what’s got me so worked up tonight, that gnawing thought of him lurking just outside my periphery. My Rose clings to me for comfort, seeking solace, while her Thorn seethes somewhere, likely unable to decide if he wants to destroy me or himself. I stroke her hair, lulling her closer to sleep, eager for her sniffles to fade into soft snores so I can finally move. The idea of him punches through my thoughts, flooding me with an electric sort of thrill.

I thought I had my art, my game , all figured out. It’s simple, really—I’ve always loved beauty in its brokenness. The poetry of creating something new from something shattered. The visceral allure of crimson streaking across a blank canvas, the raw contrast of life and death in one brutal instant. These are the only things that keep me afloat in the mire of my mundane existence.

Yet he is something else. Already broken in ways I can’t quite piece together, fractured yet still holding his jagged edges together. I see the darkness creeping through his cracks, spilling into every fiber of him. It’s only my little Rose’s fragile light that keeps him from being swallowed whole.

And I can’t stop wondering—what would happen if that light were snuffed out? If there were nothing left but darkness? Nothing left but me ? Then again, maybe we’re one and the same already.

Gabriela’s breathing evens out, soft and slow now, the faintest hint of a snore confirming she’s finally at peace. My Rose, resting blissfully unaware that her role in my newest masterpiece has already begun. Not with her blood, nor her golden skin as the canvas—but with him.

I untangle myself from her, gently removing her arm from where it rests against my chest. She stirs, just for a moment, before I pull the plush blanket over her, tucking it beneath her chin with a tenderness most wouldn’t expect from a man like me. I linger for a moment longer, savoring the stillness, then turn toward the door, slipping into my shirt and shoes with a smile tugging at my lips.

The hall is quiet as I step out, careful not to disturb her. Each creak of the old trailer floorboards sends a thrill through me, my anticipation building with every step toward the front door. He’s here—I can feel it. The vibration of his fury hums in the air like a storm about to break.

Will he punch me? Or will he kiss me?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. My money’s on violence—men like him always choose violence when they can’t untangle their emotions. It’s instinctual, primal. And me? I welcome it. Pain is just another color to paint with, another tool to shape my art.

The smell of weed filters through the night air as I step onto the porch. I don’t even make it past the warped wooden boards before his hand is on me. Thick inked fingers wrapping around my throat, slamming me back against the frail siding of the trailer. The whole structure rattles from the impact, and a grin spreads across my face.

“What fucking game are you playing?” he growls, voice low and gravelly, the joint dangling precariously from his lips.

I raise my hands, palms up, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My tone is light, playful, but the fire in his eyes tells me he’s not buying it. That glare—it’s raw, unfiltered, simmering with a rage he can’t quite contain. God, it’s beautiful.

He yanks me forward until our foreheads nearly touch, his breath hot against my skin. “Stay the fuck away from her,” he hisses, each word dripping venom.

I tilt my head, a slow smile curling on my lips. “I’m afraid that’s her decision, not yours.”

His hand tightens around my throat, cutting off my air. A low chuckle slips past my lips, the sound weak but defiant. My cock stirs against him, hard and deliberate. I hope he feels it. No—I want him to feel it.

“You did this shit on purpose,” he snaps, slamming my head into the siding. The joint tumbles from his lips, forgotten as he presses harder.

“She said you wouldn’t be back,” I manage to choke out, my voice rasping. “And I thought I closed the door.”

His nostrils flare, his jaw clenching tighter. He’s close now, too close, his breath brushing my skin as he growls. “Liar.”

I laugh again, weak but mocking. “Whatever you say.” Shifting my hips, I press my hardness against him, watching his face closely. “So,” I breathe, my voice teasing, “are you going to kiss me now or let me go?”

The flicker of shock in his expression is delicious, quickly replaced by disgust. But that flicker? It’s enough. His lips curl into a sneer before he spits in my face, the warm saliva landing just by my lips.

“You’re fucking sick,” he snarls, releasing my neck. “Stay the fuck away from my sister.”

I lick the spit off my lips, slow and deliberate, savoring his reaction as I lock eyes with him. “Says the man checking out the guy fucking his sister,” I taunt, my smile growing wider as the words hang between us.

For a moment, we stand there, two predators circling, neither willing to back down. His chest rises and falls, heavy with anger, his fist trembling at his side. Finally, he points a finger at my face, his voice sharp and cutting. “Stay the fuck away. Or else.”

Without waiting for a response, he bends to retrieve the discarded joint, then storms off, his footsteps echoing into the night. I watch him go, a grin spreading across my face as I palm the ache in my pants. I bet his cock is just as hard, his mind just as clouded with confusion and desire.

The thought of his hand moving over his length, his lips shaping my name—it’s intoxicating. I imagine his face as he comes undone for me, all that rage melting into something raw and submissive.

He’ll see it eventually. That there was no real meaning to his life before me. Moving down the weathered steps, I watch my Thorn storm off to his neighbor’s yard, desperate to escape the pull I have on him. Let him run. Let him hide. It doesn’t matter. I felt it. I saw it—the flicker of need buried beneath his hatred. But tonight isn’t the night to reel him in. Predators like him don’t bow easily. No, they need traps—delicate sprinkles of sugar leading them to the water they so desperately crave.

My Thorn will be my first living toy, my masterpiece in motion. One that will see the true me, will understand the depths of my creation, and will beg to be consumed by it. By me. Darkness always wins. That much I’m sure of.

With a pep in my step, I hop into my car, the plush leather groaning softly as I settle in. My body hums with an electric need to create. The inspiration claws at my veins, demanding release. As I pull out of the small trailer park driveway, leaving Byron to sulk in his own festering emotions, I think of all the ways I can transform him. Break him. Rebuild him. But first, I’ll grant his wish—to free him from his prison.

Not as Gabriela, though. No, her light has no place here. To be his beacon, I must become something else entirely. Something darker. But that will take time—time to think, to plan, to perfect.

The solitary road stretches ahead, the silence wrapping around me like a shroud. I almost didn't notice the woman broken down on the side of the road. Her beat-up Honda sits there like a forgotten relic, and she’s fumbling with the hood in frustration. I slow, rolling down my window, the icy night air biting at my skin.

“Hi,” I call out, my voice warm, inviting. “Need a ride?”

Her eyes snap to mine, wide and wary. She freezes, recognition flickering across her face. “Oh. It’s you,” she says awkwardly, slamming the hood shut with a loud clang.

I take her in, noting her tense posture and the way her hands rub together for warmth. It’s an isolated road, after all—too isolated. Her car won’t be found for at least a day, maybe two. What was she even doing out here?

But I don’t care. I just need her inside. Once she’s in, there’s no escape.

“Car trouble?” I ask, my voice casual, almost friendly.

She nods, blowing out a frustrated breath that fogs the cold night air. “Ran out of gas,” she mutters, shivering.

“Well, I can either bring you some gas or take you to the station,” I offer, my tone dripping with concern. “But you shouldn’t be out here alone—it’s not safe.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies me, suspicion flickering before fading into resignation. “I’ll go with you,” she says finally, her tone cautious but resolved. “I’ve seen you before. I’ll take my chances.” She turns back toward her car. “Let me just grab my purse and lock up.”

I nod, letting a warm, reassuring smile tug at my lips as I shift the car into park and unbuckle my seat belt. My hand drifts toward the back seat, where my special medicine waits, cold and ready. I grip it tightly, bringing it to the front and hiding it between my legs as I watch her walk back to her car. The black tote slung over her shoulder sways gently, its pins catching the moonlight and glinting like tiny stars.

When she slides into the passenger seat, I catch the moment her body relaxes—just slightly. My face is familiar to her, reassuring. Handsome. I’m not the kind of guy who’d pick up a woman just to murder her, at least not in her mind. No, I’m the kind of guy women like her fantasize about, hoping for a chance to score with a rich, charming stranger.

And tonight will prove no different.