26. Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Six
Ren
T he only sound in the room comes from the faint rustle of my shirt’s fabric as I button up its buttons while watching as Gabriela sleeps soundly in my bed, her small form curled beneath the blanket still dressed in her clothes. I didn’t need her thinking I was a predator, someone she needed to be wary of.
I left her clothes on to show her that I’m a man of restraint. Someone she could trust and lean on.
Walking over, I kneel beside her, gently brushing the soft brown locks that fall across her face. Small freckles adorn the bridge of her nose, a detail so delicate it almost seems out of place in a world this cruel. Her eyebrows furrow, and she frowns in her sleep, her lips twitching as though caught mid-argument. A nightmare, I’m sure.
I could wake her, pull her out of whatever terror she’s trapped in. But the sight of her terrified in her sleep only makes her more beautiful. Vulnerability suits her. Her eyes dart beneath her lids, her breathing quickens, and a faint sheen of sweat dampens her brow.
“No,” she mumbles, her voice faint and trembling. “No, Byron.”
A slow smile spreads across my lips. Her words remind me it’s about time I feed my pet. He must be famished and thirsty by now, but first, I have to take care of her.
I watch her struggle a little longer, savoring the slight movements of her lips and the way her hands twitch at her sides. Then her body jolts, and she gasps awake, her chest heaving as she takes in her surroundings. Her gaze darts around the room, frantic and unfocused.
“Hey…” I murmur softly, coaxing her eyes toward me. “You’re safe, Gabby. You’re in my room.” My voice is calm and smooth, practiced.
“Ren,” she whispers, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her voice is fragile, barely above a breath. “I think there’s something wrong with Byron.”
I stand, moving away from her as the first tear slips down her cheek. The sight is almost too much, my cock twitching at the quiet despair etched across her face. But I can’t let her see that. Not yet.
Turning my back, I adjust my collar and finish getting ready for the day. “Why do you say that?” I ask, my tone casual, as though her words don’t ignite a fire within me.
“It’s just a feeling,” she says, her voice trembling. “Call it intuition. But something’s wrong. I know it.”
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, the sound slicing through the thick tension in the room. She scans the bed, her movements frantic and disoriented, her hands fumbling over the blanket.
“It’s on the nightstand,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
Her shaking hands reach for the phone. She answers quickly. “Hola, Senora Consuelo.”
Her face pales as the voice on the other end speaks. Her lips tremble and her hand flies to her mouth, muffling a sob. Her tears gather, building behind her eyes like a dam ready to burst. And then, the dam breaks.
“No, no puede ser. It can’t be.” Her voice cracks, the words splintered by her sobs. “Not Theresita.”
The phone slips from her hands, landing on the bed with a soft thud as a sob breaks free, raw and guttural.
And my dick couldn’t be any harder.
I watch, transfixed, as the pain consumes her. A beautiful art piece, I think, admiring how the tears are streaking down her cheeks, blending with the black mascara to create jagged trails. Slowly, the light in her warm brown eyes begins to dim. The shine of hope gives way to the dull haze of despair.
I smile, shifting to cup my erection. Down, boy. The thought amuses me—my own restraint, my control.
Slipping on the mask of the caring and worried boyfriend, I turn to Gabriela. Her sobs fill the room, a perfect symphony of grief.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, feigning concern.
“There…” She gasps for air, struggling to form the words. “She’s dead.”
“Who?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to sell my confusion, careful not to rush her.
“Theresa!” she shouts, as though the name should mean something to me.
It doesn’t. She was just another flower in my garden, her purpose fulfilled the moment she delivered Byron to me. And what a beautiful Thorn she delivered.
“Is she a friend?” I probe, needing more, desperate for the delicious sight of her tears.
“She was my friend,” she snaps, her voice sharp with anger and pain. Her eyes meet mine, brimming with grief and accusation. “She served you at the diner. Do people mean so little to you?”
Her words sting, not because they’re true, but because I may have played my part too casually. I let my face soften, tilting my head in mock guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice heavy with feigned regret. “Is there anything I can do?”
I step closer, closing the distance between us. She wipes her tears with the palm of her hand, smearing her makeup further. But then she stands abruptly, creating space between us.
“I need to get back home,” she says abruptly, her voice shaking as she sniffles.
“I can drop you off. I’m free,” I offer, keeping my tone gentle.
She shakes her head, avoiding my gaze. “No, I’ll Uber,” she says coldly, her words clipped.
Her sudden detachment confuses me. I move closer again, reaching out to wipe away a stray tear trailing down her cheek. She stiffens at my touch, just briefly.
“How can I help?” I ask, my voice soft.
“I just need to be alone, Ren,” she whispers, her hand coming to rest on mine. Her touch is warm, trembling, fragile. “I need my brother. He was her friend.”
I nod, selling the dream of understanding. “Okay. Can I at least order the Uber for you?”
She nods, her composure crumbling again as she sniffles again and wipes at her face. She tries to hold herself together, but her tears keep slipping free. And I savor every last one.
From the driveway, I wave at Gabriela as she steps into the black SUV. She doesn’t look back, her hair catching the sunlight like a halo. I wish I could freeze the moment, tuck it away in my mind for safekeeping. But for now, I’ll create.
The need courses through me like wildfire, burning every thought into ash except her. Whistling softly, I stroll back into the house and head straight to the kitchen. My hands move automatically, grabbing rye bread, lettuce, mayo, and honey ham from the fridge. The sandwich takes shape under my fingers, methodical, precise, like everything I do.
The rhythm of my whistling fills the silence, my body thrumming with anticipation. Once I’m done, I slide the sandwich onto a small white plate, put everything back, and grab a bottle of spring water. The ordinary act grounds me, though my mind is already elsewhere.
Shoes slick with dew, I cross the yard to the back house. The air is heavy with mingling scents—blood, human waste, and the faint, sharp tang of bleach. The familiar cocktail hits me as I scan my way in, the door clicking softly behind me.
And there he is. My Thorn.
He’s a mess, all bloody and battered, but his eyes aren’t broken. Not yet. No, those dark eyes burn with defiance, wild and animalistic. His chains clink as he strains against them, his bare chest heaving.
“Where is she?” he growls, voice low and threatening.
Ignoring him, I walk to the counter and set the sandwich and bottle down. My movements are slow, deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me, tracking my every step.
“Where is she?” he demands again, his tone sharp enough to cut.
I unbutton my shirt, one button at a time, my gaze fixed on his naked body. The red, inflamed burn from the collar encircles his neck like a macabre necklace, a reminder of his place. His hands, bruised and bloody, twitch in frustration. Even his cock, swollen and raw, betrays his struggles.
“Safe,” I reply calmly, peeling the shirt from my shoulders. “Unlike you.”
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, but I see it—the brief flicker of something in his eyes as they roam over my bare skin. His defiance is admirable, almost beautiful in its futility.
“You need to clean up,” I say, circling a finger in the air to gesture at him and the room. “This place stinks. You stink.”
The chain rattles as he surges forward, stopping short with a grunt of frustration. His voice is a snarl now, feral and dripping with venom. “Where is she?”
I tsk. “This isn’t how this works.” I begin to undo my belt, annoyed with the defiance written all over his face. I’m in control, not him. “The way this works is I make the rules,” I say, pointing at him. “You simply obey.”
Slipping one leg and then the other from my pants, I watch as his hands ball into fists. I bet if I get close enough, he’ll land one. Feral. Wild. Animal. I fucking love it. Who would have known?
“Where is she?”
Rolling my eyes, I focus my attention on the counter, grabbing the mason jars that still hold the blood and brain matter from the mini fridge. The glass feels cold against my palms, the contents inside sluggishly shifting. The blood, thick and dark, coats the insides of its jar in a slow ripple, while the brain matter clings to the glass in chunks, pale gray with streaks of deep red. A masterpiece in its own right.
Naked, with the two mason jars in hand, I walk to my Thorn placing them on the floor with deliberate care.
“ANSWER ME!” he growls, his voice raw and guttural, sending a bolt straight to my cock. He’s lucky that I find him intriguing; if not, he wouldn’t have a tongue. Maybe I’ll cut it out anyway and pickle it in another jar—a keepsake. My collection could use something personal.
“REN!”
“That’s my name. Again, she’s safe. Should be home by now.”
The rattle of the chains stops, and I continue my path to the water line in the back. Grabbing the hose, the green bucket, and my favorite lavender soap, I take a deep breath. The faint, sharp scent of bleach still lingers, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the rancid stench of sweat and waste.
I grab a new washcloth, the fabric soft against my fingers, and begin to fill the bucket with water. As the hose gushes, I squeeze a generous amount of soap into the bucket, creating a frothy, soapy mixture. The scent of lavender rises, sharp and sweet, masking the stench for a moment.
“I don’t like to repeat myself, so I’ll try to be as clear as possible. You disobey, she dies. And I’ll make sure to craft her into a nice wax figure to keep you company.”
I cock my head to the side, my gaze moving to my two favorite pieces in the room. My first one—a perfect flower—always reminds me of my mother. The other, a failure, is the one who left me with the imperfection running down my thigh. The long ragged scar left from the flower that almost got away. I didn’t know that something as simple as paintbrush can be used as weapon. I got too cocky and careless which led her to stab my thigh but she didn’t make it far. There’s no escaping me, not in these woods.
Byron’s eyes widen as I drop the bucket before him, my gaze drifting down to his length. Thick, veiny, and raw. His cock looks swollen, blood slipping down the seams of the stitches.
“Have you cleaned it?” I ask, my tone steady, though the sight sends a wicked thrill through me.
He shakes his head. No .
Great. It looks like I’ll have to worry about infection at this rate. “Another thing,” I say, bending down and submerging the cloth into the cold, soapy mixture. “I ask questions, and you reply, verbally.”
The rag drips as I lift it out of the bucket, the water running over my knuckles in rivulets. I begin my work, starting with his legs. Byron’s body tenses as the rag moves up his inked calf, a dagger slicing through a bloody heart. The cold water shocks his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“I can shower myself,” he says, his voice thick, heavy with defiance.
I look up at him through my lashes, watching as his cock betrays him, twitching faintly despite himself. Oh. He likes me on my knees. A smirk tugs at my lips, but I prefer the latter.
Ignoring his statement, I continue, my dick hardening between my legs as I work on his other leg. The lavender scent wafts upward, a sharp contrast to the filth and blood surrounding us.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say, my voice low, testing his limits.
Byron’s jaw tightens, the chain rattling faintly as he shifts. “You think this scares me? You’re the one on your knees.”
My fingers tighten around the cloth, my smile sharpening. “I don’t have to scare you to own you.”