13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Ren
I would’ve carried her, but this so-called wildflower left me with a split lip, and I’m in no mood to be charitable. My blood hums with anticipation as I drag her limp body through the dewy grass, her body carving tracks in the earth behind us. Each step fuels the storm raging inside me, my mind racing with the possibilities of what I’ll create tonight.
The car ride wasn’t what I expected. Usually, they get handsy—whisper sweet nothings or make clumsy attempts to escape—but it always ends the same way. Either they agree to come to my place, or they’re busy sucking me off long enough for the medicine to kick in. I like letting the drugs do their work. It keeps the toys intact. But this bitch? She fought. And thanks to that I have a split lip.
I breathe deeply, forcing my aggravation down as her head lolls to the side, hair brushing the ground. She’s still now, the medicine finally doing its job, but not before I had to bash her head into the dashboard to keep her from killing us both. Even in danger, she fought like a survivor—wild, feral, and reckless.
I’ll enjoy breaking her.
The studio room looms ahead, hidden deep in the woods. It’s my sanctuary, my temple. After my mother’s death, I sold everything and got this place—far away from prying eyes. The heavy door stands before us, silent and imposing. Placing my hand against the scanner, I wait for the red light to sweep over my palm. Behind me, she groans, the sound low and guttural, her head shifting weakly as her eyes flit around at the towering trees.
The door beeps, and I shove it open, crossing the threshold. Her head thuds against the floor as I drop her legs carelessly, kicking the door shut behind us. I clap my hands, the sound sharp and final, and the lights flicker on, flooding the room with a harsh, clinical glow.
"Welcome home," I murmur, taking in the sight of my newest acquisition in her new resting place.
This is my gallery.
The white tile floor gleams under the fluorescent lights, sloping just enough for the blood to pool and drain away easily. Mirrors cover every inch of the walls, reflecting the scene from every possible angle. Bones and painted canvases line the walls—each a masterpiece, born from my favorite creations. Wax mannequins stand frozen in the corners, contorted into grotesque, lifelike poses.
She makes a weak noise as I strip, tossing my clothes carelessly to the floor. I like being naked when I work—returning to my most primal state. Turning to her, I catch her wide, glassy eyes in the mirror. Brown, terrified, and filled with the clarity of someone who finally understands the depths of their situation.
“You must be so scared,” I say, my voice soft, almost soothing. “And you should be.”
Her eyes dart frantically, looking for an escape where none exists. I smile, locking eyes with her through the mirror.
“But don’t worry,” I say, crouching beside her, brushing her hair back from her face. “We’re going to create something beautiful together.”
I stand by the counter, pouring myself a glass of wine. Grateful, I let the warmth of it spread through me, no longer having to worry about masks or pretense. This part is mine to enjoy, a moment to just be. No act. No performance. Just me.
I swirl the wine in the glass, taking a slow sip. My mind races with thoughts of how to break her, how to mold her into something... broken. The idea stirs something deep inside me, something primal. Her waitress uniform is torn and soaked, remnants of what I’ve done to her. I know she wants to move, to fight back, but the sedative makes her a prisoner of her own body.
A smirk twists at the corner of my lips. There's no denying it—I'm a deviant. And in this space, I don't have to hide it. This is my dominion, my world where the mask slips away and the monster is free to do what it wants.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, stepping closer to her, my eyes tracing her features—her wide brown eyes, the softness of her skin, the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her hair, a dark brown with strands of gold, falls across her face, inviting my gaze.
“Such a beautiful flower,” I murmur, “but not quite ready to be picked.”
I crouch beside her, placing the wine glass down gently. My hands move to her, undressing her slowly, savoring the feel of her skin, my eyes drinking in every inch. She groans, the sound low and strained, but I can tell—she thinks I’m about to rape her. But that’s not what’s coming.
Then, it hits me. This one, this prize, is more valuable to me intact than destroyed. She won’t be broken. Not beyond repair, at least. She’ll be the bait I need, the perfect tool to lead him to me. And when he arrives, she’ll be his. My gift to him.
I stand over her, my body tense with anticipation, the weight of the moment settling in. She's helpless, her brows drawn in fear as I watch her tears slip down her face. The sight is... almost perfect. She groans, desperate to move, but the sedative has rendered her immobile. She’ll be like this for hours, unable to fight or flee, her body tied up and ready to be used.
Right now, though, I need power. I need release.
I move my hand over my cock, the sensation making me breathe unevenly. Her terror is a sweet, twisted fuel for my desire. I chuckle darkly, watching her struggle against the medicine, still unwilling to accept the situation.
"I won’t touch you tonight," I murmur, my voice low. "But this will be your new home, which means you belong to me."
My grip tightens, my hand moves faster. I need to feel something—anything—before I can move forward.
"You are my canvas," I continue, my voice growing rougher. "And as such, I will use you in whatever way I see fit."
I groan, my arousal building, the need to come threatening to overtake me. "Your blood will be my paint, and your body... my canvas."
The release comes suddenly, and I gasp, watching as my cum hits her face, slowly trailing down her nose and into her eye. She shuts them tight, trying to block it out, but I can’t help but revel in the moment.
Standing tall, I walk over, grab one of her legs and drag her to the spot I’ve chosen. For now, she remains alive—bait. But before the real game begins, I can indulge a little.
I let her go, moving toward the wall. Grabbing the black paint and a lock, I return to her. Kneeling down, I link the chain to the collar around her neck, securing her in place. She’ll be my masterpiece.
I’ll paint her yet—her terror will be my brushstroke. I’m certain her blood will create a masterpiece like no other.
My feet move with practiced ease as I step down the aisle in front of her, the cart loaded with my painting supplies rolling silently behind me. I pause, kneeling in front of her with a knife in hand—a thin steel blade that gleams under the dim light, its shape reminiscent of a mini sword.
"I need two things from you," I say, my voice steady as I grab a fistful of her hair, forcing her to look at me. “Your pain.”
The knife glides lightly beneath her jaw. With a flick of my wrist, I slice across her skin—shallow enough to avoid killing her, but deep enough to draw the blood I crave.
"And your blood."
I rise, stepping back to grab a smaller canvas and thinner brushes, setting them up as the blood begins to pool beneath her. It isn’t enough to fully paint what I envision, but it will suffice for tonight.
Sitting beside her, I dip the brush into the crimson pool on the floor and begin to work. "You’re the first flower I’ve ever needed to keep from wilting."
The blood spreads across the canvas, and I let out a breath, lost in the beauty of it. "You’re important—this will be my best work yet." Her tears, mixing with the blood, create a watercolor effect that takes my breath away.
"Your blood paints beautifully," I mutter, almost breathless, as I spin the canvas around to show her the beginning stages—just the outline of her head.
"Rough, I know."
I turn the canvas back around and continue my work, dipping the brush into the blood-and-tears mixture. "But it’ll be so beautiful. My mom used to say that painting wasn’t a talent, that I needed to learn more."
I glance over at her, smiling as she squeezes her eyes shut. One blink. Two. Three. Morse code.
"You want to talk?" I murmur, intrigued. "I like that. We can get to know each other."
I pause, studying her, then lean in slightly. "One blink for no. Two for yes."
She blinks twice, and I smile, dipping the brush back into the mixture.
"I bet I can guess what you want to know." I breathe out, turning my focus back to her. "I told you—I need you as bait. It was going to be you or a new mom. You seemed more... forgettable. Sorry."
Her eyes widen, the fear in them almost palpable.
"Yes," I continue, "I am going to hurt you. But after all, there’s beauty in pain."
Her blinking grows frantic, but I lose interest in the back-and-forth. I want to finish this before I need to sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.