Painter’s Obsession

17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Ren

Fuck, she shattered so beautifully....

I pull out of her, my dick slick with crimson, and waste no time. I stride to the canvas before the blood dries, gripping myself as though it’s a brush. With every stroke, I smear madness into being. Her blood, her anguish, her essence. Her sobs rise and fall behind me, a grotesque melody that soothes with every stroke of my cock. The rhythm calms me, grounds me, even as my mind begins to unravel.

Eyes closed, I let the memory engulf me—not a beautiful one, no. It never is.

“You’re the man of the house now,” she purrs, her voice slithering down my spine as her hand trails across my chest. Red nails, painted with the same fury as her lips, vanish beneath the waistband of my shorts. I want to scream, to push her away, but the scream never comes. I am paralyzed, staring ahead as she pulls me free, her breath warm against me.

“I need to teach you how to be a man.” Her words slither like smoke into my ears, curling around me, suffocating. As she straddles me and sinks onto me, her hips grind with slow deliberation, each roll punctuating her whispered promises. “A perfect man... a man with a good job, a bright future.”

Her voice is honeyed poison, and no matter how desperately I want to resist, my body betrays me. Arousal floods me, shame burns through me hotter than the fire pooling in my gut. I groan into her chest, tears carving rivers down my face. She smiles when I spill into her, her nails digging deep into my back as though to brand me.

Back in the present, I snap my eyes open, my grip tightening around myself. The blood smears beneath me, drying into clots as I press harder against the canvas. Each stroke of my flesh on fabric feels like release, yet nothing in me feels free.

Her sobs behind me grow fainter, and I paint faster, desperate to outrun the memory. But her words echo like a brand inside my skull.

“That’s it... my beautiful man.”

My pretty flower continues her song, her sobs twisting into the stillness of the room. I sit on the cold ground, facing her naked and crumpled form. Crimson stains the insides of her thighs, delicate trails marking where I might have been a little rough—but not enough to break her entirely. No, I’ve only just begun. By the time he finds her—and I have no doubt he will—she’ll be the perfect breadcrumb, a carefully crafted lure.

My Thorn will take the bait. He always does. The chase is what feeds him, just as it feeds me. Two predators circling the same prey, though his obsession has blinded him to the fact that he’s the one being hunted.

I sketch idly, dragging lines over her trembling frame as though carving her essence onto the page. My pencil hovers near her chest when I ask, almost absentmindedly, “What’s your name?”

Her sobbing falters, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of defiance. “My...” Her voice is hoarse, raw from all her screaming. I tilt my head, waiting.

“You don’t deserve to know,” she spits, a faint fire glinting in her gaze.

I smile, slow and amused. I’ve always appreciated spunk. It will cost her later, but for tonight, I’ve taken enough. Enough to leave her shattered and pliable, though not entirely broken. Not yet. I glance at my sketch, then at her. “Kill me,” she whispers suddenly, her voice trembling.

I pause mid-stroke, pencil hovering over the curve of her breast. “Why would I do that?” I ask, genuine curiosity coloring my tone. “We had so much fun.”

She swallows hard, her hand trembling as it moves between her legs, clutching herself in some desperate attempt at comfort. “Please,” she begs, voice cracking.

I click my tongue, disappointed. “Tell you what,” I say, placing the sketchbook down beside me with deliberate care. “When I get what I want, I’ll give you what you want.”

Her head lifts slightly, her eyes filled with a flicker of hope—or perhaps just desperation—ready to give me anything for an end to her misery. I smirk, pinching my thumb and forefinger together. “I got a taste of what I needed tonight. Just a little.” My tone shifts, colder now, as I lean closer. “But what I truly want, you can’t give me. Not directly. You can lead him to me, though.”

“Who?” Her question cuts through the air, catching me off guard. It doesn’t irritate me; instead, it enlightens me.

“Byron,” I say softly, savoring the name. “My Thorn.”

She chuckles. A low, broken sound that grates against my nerves. The sharp pang of her defiance stirs something violent within me. My smile fades, replaced by a frown. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” she breathes, her body finally relaxing as if she’s found some final, bitter relief. “He won’t come for me. No one will. I guess neither of us will get what we want.”

She’s wrong. So deliciously wrong.

And I’m about to show her.

I walk out of the studio, naked, covered in her blood, my cum, and possibly some shit. I might’ve been too hard on her, might’ve crossed the line—but I hated being mocked. She was my prey… my canvas. For her to think she was nothing but flesh for me to use was absurd. Her punishment was fitting.

Now, because of this outburst, I need to speed things up. I have to lay a breadcrumb large enough for him to follow. But what?

As I trudge naked through the grass, my phone pings in my hand. A good morning message from Gabriela.

Hi, hope you slept well.

Joke’s on me. I didn’t sleep at all.

But at least I’d let out a lot of needed frustration. Then it hits me. I’ve never invited Gabriela over before. That’s it. That’s what will drag him here. His light.

The canvas in the studio was right—he wouldn’t come for her. But for Gabriela? He’d do anything. He’d come willingly.

It’s time to move. I need him . Not the toy—I’m sure it’s broken.

I stop midway through the woods, the cool air biting at my skin. Naked, I scan the trees surrounding me and take a deep breath in.

“What were you doing with her?” she snapped, slapping me across the face. “What did you do?”

She looked over at the prostitute lying on the ground, naked, my cum sprayed across her face. I didn’t answer. She was furious.

Grabbing the gun from her purse, she turned to the whore on the ground. “Run,” she commanded.

The woman bolted toward the woods, but she didn’t make it past the trees. The gunshot rang out, and she collapsed, struck in the back.

“Bury your whore,” she said coldly, shoving the gun into my hands. “And when you’re done, I’ll tell you the punishment for a bad man.”

Another ping from my phone pulls me back to the present.

Can I see you tonight?

My fingers move on their own.

My house this time. I want some truly alone time.

Her answer comes almost immediately.

Of course!

Perfect. I’ll pick you up around seven. Bring a bag to spend the night. Of course, if that’s okay. Also, good morning. Running late.

The bubbles appear and disappear before her reply pops up.

See you at seven.

Walking into the house, I move with quickness, heading straight to the shower. The water runs hot, washing away the blood and grime clinging to my skin. Once I’m clean, I get dressed—burgundy button-down, black dress pants, and black Dior shoes

Ready, I head outside, slide into the Mercedes, and peel out of the driveway, the engine roaring as I head toward Laguna’s Bay courthouse.

The day was long—too long. I walk down the halls of the courthouse when the commotion in the front catches my attention. My eyes drift to the woman arguing with the town sheriff, Jaramillo.

“Es mi hija. It’s my daughter,” the woman cries. “ Por favor. Please.“ She begs, but her desperation meets nothing but silence.

I move closer, offering her a gentle smile. When I speak, my voice is low and calm, the kind that disarms. “?Cómo la puedo ayudar? How can I help?”

Her teary brown eyes meet mine, the same shade as the ones I extinguished earlier today. Suddenly, my long, aggravating day doesn’t seem so bad. There’s nothing I love more than pain—knowing that I’m here, playing the role of the good Samaritan, while everyone around me remains blissfully oblivious to the big bad wolf in their midst.

I smile wider, leaning in just slightly. “ Todo bien? Everything okay?”

But something shifts in her gaze. Her trembling hands wipe at her cheeks as she murmurs, “ Todo bien. Everything’s okay.”

Ah, that fire. The same one I extinguished in her daughter not so long ago.

I dip my chin in acknowledgment, offering her a small nod before turning and walking away, my footsteps measured and deliberate.

The town is buzzing as usual, the hum of life continuing around me. As I head toward the parking lot, a familiar sight catches my eye—a beat-up silver Honda Civic hoisted onto the back of a tow truck. They found her car.

My lips twitch into a hum as I make my way through the lot.

I was excited. Excited to see my canvas, to create the final piece. I didn’t need her anymore.

But first, sleep. Yes, sleep sounded nice.

I approach my vehicle, sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine growls to life as I pull out of the parking lot, already imagining the masterpiece waiting for me in the morning.