Painter’s Obsession

24. Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Four

Ren

Gabriela smiles, her hand moving behind her neck to massage the tension—the stress of her brother being MIA. Little does she know that he’s closer than she thinks. I found his truck earlier, tucked away like a secret he thought no one could uncover. He hid it well, but not well enough. I didn’t bother disposing of it. There’s no need. Once I’m done with his training, my pet will be nothing but obedient.

The ultimate living, breathing masterpiece.

Each part of him will belong to me, a perfect blend of submission and control. And Gabriela will ensure that.

I glance at the camera, a smirk curling on my lips as I bite into the steak. He’s probably watching already, connecting the dots, knowing exactly who’s sitting in front of me. I wish I could see his face as he adds it all up. Oh, the beautiful hopelessness. Tasteful despair.

Soon enough, I’ll revel in it, but not yet. First, I must show him what happens when rules are broken. But I like to draw out my games. There’s nothing more exquisite than the suspense.

Under the table, I press a button on the remote, shutting off the camera feed. The screen goes dark. Let him wonder. Let him despair.

Then, I’ll bring him to his knees.

“Anything on Byron?”

She looks at me with those brown eyes, so unlike her brother’s. Hers are filled with light, glistening with unshed tears, genuine worry etched into every line of her face. It must be nice to have someone care that much about you.

“No,” she says, letting out a shaky breath, her hand still massaging the back of her slender neck. Her brown curls fall past her shoulders, resting just above the curve of her round breasts. “But, like you said, he’s been in prison and then working so much. He’s probably drinking it up or with some woman. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Her voice cracks, a small tremble betraying her calm facade. “I just thought... maybe the time in prison changed him, you know.”

The corners of my mouth twitch. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh at the sincerity in her tone.

“He’ll show up. Just relax,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Byron’s a grown man with his own life. Cut the cord.”

She blinks, startled by my bluntness, but nods. I reach for the pink Moscato she loves so much—the very same drink that will render her unconscious and helpless at my mercy. The thought sends a thrill coursing through me, a thorn and a rose together, completely mine.

I pour the sweet liquid into her glass as she picks up a bite of purple carrots to pair with the steak.

“How was work?” she asks, her tone lighter now, as if trying to distract herself from her worry.

I shrug. “It wasn’t too bad. A couple of meetings, but mostly dealing with society’s elite—big toddlers in overpriced suits.”

She smiles faintly, a flicker of amusement breaking through her concern.

“Who could have guessed that,” she says.

“You’d be surprised how much a man with everything complains about his own stupid choices,” I reply, taking another bite of steak. “It makes my job harder, but nothing I can’t handle. How about yours?”

She rolls her shoulders, her curls bouncing lightly with the motion. “It was busy. Lots of hair washing and gossiping.”

I smile, a casual, practiced reaction, but inside, I’m counting the minutes until the Moscato takes effect.

Soon, her laughter will fade into silence.

The Thorn and the Rose, together in my hands.

My masterpiece is almost complete.

“I’m not feeling too well,” she says, lifting the cup of Moscato to her lips. The faint clink of the glass against her teeth draws my gaze to her mouth. She takes a slow sip, the sweet liquid coating her lips, before setting the glass down with trembling fingers. “I think I need some sleep.”

“Maybe I can help,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my scotch. The amber liquid burns pleasantly down my throat, grounding me in the moment. I push back my chair and stand, my footsteps deliberate as I close the space between us. My hands grip the wooden back of her chair, fingers pressing into the smooth grain as I pull it back, the scrape of its legs against the floor like a whispered warning. I kneel in front of her, placing myself just within her line of vision.

“I’m helping you relax. Pressure points on your feet are the best to stimulate,” I say, my voice steady as I grab one heeled foot, slipping the black stiletto free. Her golden skin radiates warmth under my touch as I begin to rub, my thumbs pressing into the arch of her foot. I wish it were covered in crimson, slick with her life. Red has always been my color.

“Fuck, Ren,” she breathes, her body falling limp against the chair. Her black skirt rides higher, revealing a sliver of pink lace panties. Blood rushes south, thick and insistent, but I hold back. Not yet.

I continue to knead her foot, the white polish of her nails contrasting perfectly against her skin. My eyes flick up to her face. “Tell me about your childhood?” I ask, needing every crack in her armor—every detail that will help me destroy Byron.

Her brows knit together as she struggles to form coherent words, the sedative already dulling her thoughts. “I don’t know... it was pretty...” Her voice trails off, a soft groan slipping from her lips as I apply slight pressure to the sole of her foot.

The silk of her blouse shifts as she moves, exposing the curve of her breast. She squirms lightly in the chair, as though trying to fight off the pull of the drug.

“It was pretty?” I prod, leaning down to place a kiss on her white-tipped toes.

“It was okay for me,” she breathes, her voice faint. “We struggled financially.” She pauses, her lips parting as if searching for words. “But Byron had it harder.”

Her hand moves weakly to her forehead, an almost unconscious attempt to ground herself. My hand travels up her leg, fingers brushing against her soft inner thigh.

“Byron,” I murmur, his name slipping from my lips like a prayer or a curse. Thoughtless. Consumed. He’s everything I want to destroy, and everything I crave.

But she doesn’t notice. She’s too far gone now, slipping under, her body pliant beneath my touch.

“He didn’t get along with Dad,” she whispers, a faint moan breaking through as my fingers graze the damp fabric of her panties.

“So wet, baby,” I say, my voice low and deliberate. My eyes catch her glassy gaze, the pupils dilated as the sedative drags her deeper into submission. “Tell me more.”

“Mom died,” she breathes, the words catching on her lips. “Dad was harder on Byron.”

My thumb circles her clit, applying pressure as I slide a second finger inside her. Her body arches, her heat tightening around me with every motion.

“Is that so?” I ask, my tone deceptively soft. “Did he hit Byron?”

She nods weakly, her breath hitching as I curl my fingers inside her, coaxing her body into further submission.

“How about you?”

She shakes her head, her movements sluggish, her lips trembling as she moans. “Only...” She gasps, her back arching further, her cunt tightening greedily around my fingers. “Only Byron.”

“Fuck, can we stop?” she whimpers, her voice barely audible.

“Stop this?” I ask, leaning into her as I grab her plump bottom lip between my teeth. My other hand moves to my pocket—showtime. I click the button that activates the feed to his screen. Pulling away from her lips, I trail my mouth down her neck, savoring the warmth of her skin. Her head drops back against the chair as the sedative pulls her deeper into slumber.

She’s mine, just as her brother is.

My Thorn and my Rose.

I pull my turtleneck over my head, the fabric slipping free in one fluid motion. Glancing over my shoulder, I lock eyes with the camera and wink. I want him to see, to understand.

Returning my attention to the needy cunt in front of me, I unbuckle my belt and toss it aside. Her limp body is easy to manipulate as I guide her off the chair, bending her over the edge of the table. Her pencil skirt hikes up as I position her, exposing the plump curve of her ass. From my pocket, I pull out a condom.

Breeding her would be tempting, but the last thing I need is her questioning my honesty—or the mess of my cum leaking from her. No, everything must remain precise, controlled.

Her head turns to the side, her cheek pressing against the cool surface of the table. I’ll spare him the sight of her fully exposed body, but he can see mine. That’s enough for now.

I finish removing my pants, letting them fall to the floor. Using my teeth, I rip open the foil and roll the goatskin condom down my length, my eyes flicking back to the camera.

I wave, a slow, deliberate motion. All eyes on me.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I line up with her entrance. In one brutal thrust, I bury myself inside her.

My gaze remains locked on the camera as I move, refusing to break the trance. Each thrust is calculated, deliberate. I’m not here for her warmth—I don’t even feel it. It’s his tight defiance I picture, his body taking me, his blood marking me. Not hers.

I know he wouldn’t want to submit, wouldn’t want to be a bottom—but he will. He’ll have no choice.

Even unconscious, her cunt clenches greedily around me, choking my cock with every brutal thrust. I release her hair, letting her face fall to the table with a soft thud. My hand comes down on her ass, the smack echoing in the room.

I glance down, watching where we connect. The tattoo above my groin— Rotten Pieces —seems to shift with the motion, the red ink of the dragon tail disappearing as I bury myself deeper inside her.

Closing my eyes, I let the fantasy consume me. It’s him. Byron. His blood, his resistance, the moment he finally breaks. I see it all, feel it all.

The thought alone makes my toes curl, warmth pooling deep in my core before I plunge headfirst over the edge.

“Fuck,” I groan, pumping slowly as my release spills into the condom. My fingers dig into her ass, careful not to leave a mark.

Again, my eyes find the camera. I pull out, walking toward it naked and still hard, making sure he sees everything as I unroll the condom and toss it to the side.

I smirk, tilting my head slightly.

“Bye-bye,” I mouth, flicking the feed off with a deliberate press of the button.