Painter’s Obsession

38. Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Eight

Ren

A fter countless hours of working, negotiating, and pretending to be someone I’m not, finally, I can be me—the monster.

I watch from afar, rain streaking down the car window like silent tears. Bringing my own car was reckless, but ever since Byron came into my life, I’ve done things I’d never have dared before. He’s made me reckless, a slave to impulses I can’t control. But tonight, I’ll take back that control—with fear.

No more letting him marinate in his emotions, no more giving him time to breathe. I need to sever the cord, snuff out the light. We both cannot coexist. We are the sun and the moon.

And only one can exist in the sky. Only one can claim Byron.

The trailer sits in darkness, the rain hammering against its metal roof, a relentless drumbeat that matches the pounding in my chest. It’s almost too perfect, like nature itself is conspiring with me. I wait, scanning the street for movement, but it remains deserted.

Time to create.

I slip into my black thermal, cargo pants, and boots. The mask comes next—metallic black, smooth and featureless. It will distort my voice, turning me into something unrecognizable, something monstrous. Leather gloves slide over my hands, completing the transformation.

My eyes fall on the switchblade resting on the console, the blade catching a sliver of moonlight. It’s a small, sharp thing, but it’ll be enough. I grab it and step out into the rain, creeping toward the back of the trailer.

On my last visit, I noticed the back lock didn’t latch properly. I’d come then as a guest, polite and unassuming, while Byron was away and Gabriela showered. I’d explored the space, cataloging its weaknesses. Now, that loose lock becomes my entrance.

The door creaks open with ease, and I slip inside, closing it behind me. The trailer smells of food, warmth, and her—a suffocating mix that sets my teeth on edge.

I move through the cramped hallway, each step deliberate. Thunder cracks outside, masking the faint creak of the floor under my boots. Her bedroom door is slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling out. It’s all too cinematic, too cliché.

But clichés work for a reason.

I push the door open and step inside. She’s sprawled on her stomach, a bat resting against the far side of the bed. Her nude-colored nails grip the handle loosely, as though she knows she needs it even in sleep. Her cheeky blue shorts ride high, exposing the curve of her ass, and her white T-shirt is bunched up, revealing the tramp stamp she got one drunken night—a pair of angel wings.

Her hair is perfectly braided, each strand meticulously in place. She’s so much like Byron—just softer, more delicate. Beautiful, like a diamond.

My Rose, without her Thorn.

Too bad I plucked it, leaving her exposed to predators like me. There’s no protection. There’s no escape. Only darkness.

The switchblade feels heavy in my hand as I approach the bed. I drag it up her leg, pressing just enough to leave a mark. She murmurs, swatting at me in her sleep, but then I press harder. A line of crimson beads under the blade, blossoming like a stroke of paint on a canvas.

She jerks awake, gasping, the knife biting deeper into her skin. Her brown eyes widen, and for a moment, she doesn’t scream. Then her lips part.

I’m faster.

My gloved hand clamps over her mouth, cutting off the sound.

“Scream, and I’ll carve your throat open,” I hiss, my voice distorted by the mask. “I’ll bring your head to your brother as a gift.”

Her body goes rigid beneath me, trembling like a caught bird. She shakes her head frantically, her tears soaking into my glove.

Good girl.

I release my hand, the gloves glistening with her tears, as it moves up her trembling leg, detouring toward her center. She slams her legs shut, her body recoiling.

“NO,” she whimpers, her voice breaking like glass.

I don’t care. Why not enjoy this moment? I don’t plan on touching her—not really. I want him.

But she must die.

Only her death will break him, shatter his will so I can mold him into something exquisite. A masterpiece. Still, I’ll keep her—a rose immortalized in my garden, a perfect bloom forever frozen in its beauty.

“Do you want him to die?” I ask, tapping her leg lightly with the blade.

She shakes her head frantically, her brown eyes wide with panic. Tears streak her face, shimmering like the rain pounding against the trailer.

“Then open up.”

Gabriela’s legs fall apart slowly, reluctantly, as a sob escapes her lips. Her entire body trembles like a leaf caught in the storm. For a fleeting moment, I catch the spark of rebellion in her eyes. She’s calculating, planning. But before her hand can move toward the bat, I strike.

The blade sinks into the inside of her thigh—not too deep, just enough to paint a thin line of red. The sharp cry that escapes her lips is almost satisfying.

“Toss it to the side,” I order, my voice low and commanding.

Her lip quivers, but she obeys, pushing the bat away with a shaking hand.

“You’re both so obedient,” I mock, dragging the blade across her skin. “It’s almost endearing.”

The knife lies flat against her, its cold steel making her shudder. She turns her face away, her tears soaking the pillow beneath her. Her silence, her submission—it’s intoxicating. She looks even more beautiful this way.

“I’ll watch you bleed,” I murmur, sliding the blade higher, stopping just shy of her shorts. “And then I’ll watch him. My Thorn and my Rose.”

She turns her head farther away, sobbing uncontrollably as the fabric of her shorts begins to darken, damp with fear. What a naughty little thing.

“Plea—please,” she stammers, her voice barely audible.

“Shh,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Don’t beg—it only excites me.”

I groan softly, pressing my hand against myself, letting her see the evidence of my arousal. Her gaze darts to the bulge in my pants, and a fresh wave of sobs wracks her body.

“Will you be a good girl and help me before you bleed?” I ask, my tone almost gentle, mocking her with the pretense of kindness.

She shakes her head violently, her tears falling faster, her lips trembling. Then, she does the unthinkable. Fucking fights. She uses her voice to call for her brother and the sight is almost admirable, but little does she know I’m about to snuff out his light by ending her.

“Byron,” she chokes out, her voice raw and pleading.

A laugh escapes me, sharp and cruel.

“He’s not here,” I sneer, leaning in closer. “I cut him down already.”

I shove her back onto the bed. Why not? Why not savor her tears, the raw desperation?

But I didn’t expect the fight.

Her knee slams into my groin, pain exploding through my body like fire. My grip falters, and the knife nearly cuts me as I stumble back.

She doesn’t waste a second. Gabriela scrambles off the bed, her bare feet skidding on the wooden floor as she lunges for the door.

“Stupid little bitch,” I snarl, pushing myself up, fury surging through me.

I grab the nearest object—a vase from her nightstand—and hurl it at her. It smashes against the wall as she yanks the door open, her screams tearing through the storm.

“CALL 911!” she shrieks, her voice cracking with terror as she bolts across the yard to the neighbor’s house.

Her fists pound against their door, the rain drowning out her cries. A light flickers on inside, hesitant, wavering. For a moment, she’s just a silhouette in the storm, and I almost laugh at her desperation.

“Stupid fucking bitch,” I mutter under my breath, retreating toward the back door.

The rain pelts my mask as I run toward my car, my breathing heavy, my mind racing. By the time anyone comes to help her, I’ll be long gone.

But this isn’t over.

I rip off the mask and toss it into the back seat, my breathing still ragged. The adrenaline courses through me, hot and unrelenting. Turning on the car, I pull out of the trailer park, the rain pounding against the windshield, each drop a sharp reminder of my failure.

The road stretches out in front of me, dark and slick, leading me straight into the heart of town. The neon signs cast a sickly glow on the wet pavement, illuminating the silhouettes of prostitutes parading along the street corners.

Not my usual pick, but tonight, I need something to take the edge off. Something to drown the fury simmering beneath my skin.

Something that will drag him into the abyss with me.

He’s so close—so tantalizingly close. All I need is to give him a taste, to show him how far I’m willing to go. If I can’t snuff out his light completely yet, I’ll chip away at it piece by piece.

A woman with a red umbrella crosses in front of the car, her silhouette framed by the hazy streetlights. Late twenties, light brown skin, long legs in booty shorts, and a see-through black shirt that clings to her curves. Her long brown hair cascades in soft waves, parted to the side, and her bold red lipstick gleams like a fresh wound.

I slow the car and roll down the window, forcing a smile to my lips.

“How much to show me a good time?” I ask, my voice calm, almost casual.

She turns, her acrylic nails playing with her hair as her gaze meets mine. There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, the kind that suggests she’s seen men like me a thousand times before.

“For you?” she coos, leaning closer, her voice syrupy sweet. “For you, baby, free.”

She saunters toward the passenger side, hips swaying, confidence dripping from every step.

Easy .

Pulling into my driveway, I open the app, the camera feed flickering to life. Byron sits in the center of the room, the collar around his neck gleaming under the dim light, the chain attached to the ground taut as he leans forward, one leg perched up and the other planted firmly. As he snacks on a piece of protein bar, smart move to ration it off. Yet he remains unmoving, defiant even in captivity.

You would think he would have given in but now. I’ve taken care of him, even when he wasn’t awake to see it. Loosening his restraints to keep his blood flowing, feeding him so he doesn’t waste away. He’s mine. He should be grateful. Yet he continues to rebel against me. I exit out the app and place the phone back into my pocket.

I glance at my lovely flower in the passenger seat. Her body lies limp, yet her eyes, wide and brimming with tears, reveal that she feels everything. She can’t move—her body betraying her—but the terror is alive in her gaze, her shallow breaths, her tears carving black streaks through her mascara.

“You’re in good hands,” I murmur, my hand grazing her inked thigh, my thumb brushing over the moon-and-sun tattoo etched into her skin. My touch lingers, savoring her stillness. She doesn’t flinch, but only because she can’t.

Tonight’s lesson is about creation. Devotion. Complete and utter submission. Byron will understand, even if I have to drag him into the void myself.

I click off my seatbelt and step out of the car, the anticipation buzzing beneath my skin. Circling to the passenger side, I open her door. She groans faintly, the sound barely audible, her paralysis rendering her body useless.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I coo, unclipping her seatbelt with deliberate care. Lifting her effortlessly, I sling her over my shoulder. Her weight presses against me, warm and pliant, her helplessness fueling my resolve.

The whistle I hum cuts through the night as I carry her through the house and out the back door. The path to the studio feels alive, electric with the promise of what’s to come. It’s been too long since I’ve made something worth breaking.

At the studio door, I shift her weight, freeing my hand to press against the scanner. The lock clicks open, and I step inside.

There he is, Byron—chained, restrained, and utterly mine.

The thick collar around his neck gleams, the long chain rattling faintly as he shifts. It’s bolted to the ground, giving him some freedom to move but never enough to escape. He sits stiffly, his head tilted slightly toward the floor, refusing to look at me.

“Honey, I’m home,” I announce, my voice sing-song, mocking.

He doesn’t react.

I clear my throat, stepping further into the room.

“The fuck do you want?” he growls, his voice low and hoarse, dragged from him like broken glass scraping against stone.

Slowly, his head turns toward me, and his eyes land on the limp figure slung over my shoulder. For a moment, his breath catches, his entire body tensing. Then his eyes widen, and there it is—the reaction I’ve been waiting for.

Fear .

I grin and smack her ass sharply, the sound cracking through the room. Her body twitches faintly, a soft groan escaping her lips.

“I got us something,” I say, stepping closer. “We’re going to bond tonight, Byron. I’ll show you what I do. What I create.”

His head shakes slowly at first, then more frantically as he struggles to his feet. The chain rattles against the floor, pulling taut as he reaches the edge of his allowed space.

“What the fuck? I’m not helping you,” he spits, his voice rising with anger.

I lower her carefully to the ground, arranging her limp body like a canvas, her teary eyes tracking my every move.

“You are,” I reply, calm and measured. “If you don’t, next time it’ll be Gabriela.”

Her name hangs in the air like a threat, and I see the impact hit him like a blow. He freezes, his breathing uneven, his fists clenched at his sides.

I strip slowly, savoring the moment. The black thermal falls first, then the cargo pants and boots. Finally, I shed my boxers, standing exposed under the harsh studio light.

For a fleeting instant, we are equals—two beings stripped bare, bound by chains, one physical and the other mental. But only for an instant.

Byron’s eyes burn with fury and helplessness, his chains rattling as he shifts, tension radiating through his body.

“It’s time to create,” I whisper, the anticipation humming in my veins.