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Chapter Nine

Byron

T he hunger continues to torment me, sleeping is impossible, and honestly, I don’t really want to close my eyes. Despite the hunger and thirst gnawing at me, something deeper keeps me awake—something worse. I want to give in, to let him break me, but there’s a voice in my head that tells me to fight.

“Help her.”

Cold fingers trace my jaw, nails scraping my skin. Small, lifeless hands caress my face—Theresita. Her headless body sits beside me, leaning close, whispering like she’s just sharing a secret.

I’m really fucking losing it .

“Stay alive,” she repeats over and over, her voice layering, distorting—no longer hers, but something unholy. My throat tightens, my lips parting as if to respond, but the shape of her flickers like a dying lightbulb, and then it’s my mother’s voice I hear.

“Protect her,” she murmurs.

I want to—I really do—but I’m too weak.

I need food.

I can barely keep my eyes open, but again, I don’t want to close them. I can barely move. This is the longest my body has been without nutrients, and I don’t even know how long it’s been since I last had water. A day? Two? The walls breathe around me. My vision pulses.

I have to admit it.

I should’ve taken the deal.

Just like that, a thin stream of light filters into the space, slicing through the darkness as Ren descends the stairs with a container in his hand.

Food .

My mouth instantly begins to salivate, like a dog needing its bone. Shame burns through me, but not enough to stop the need.

“Good. Still alive.”

I want to punch him in the face. I want to choke the smirk off his lips. But I also want to sink to my knees and rip the food from his hands. It’s pathetic, but survival doesn’t give a fuck about pride.

“No more choices from now on, only consequences. Eat.”

The container hits the floor beside me, the thud loud in the silence. Lifting the side of the red lid, I see the contents inside the clear plastic. Meat. Cooked. Maybe chicken.

Didn’t care.

I also don’t care that Ren watches me like I’m some kind of entertainment, his smirk curling like a cat toying with a dying mouse. “Tell me, Byron, did you think I would have refused your invitation?”

I stare at Ren as he looks at me with curiosity. Invitation? I scoff. If this is what he thought I was doing, inviting him to come seek me, man, he’s more fucked up in the head than I thought.

“Invitation or bait?” I question. Ren rolls his neck. “Whatever you want to call it, you wanted me to find you.” He points at me with a condescending look on his face. “You want me to destroy you and create you. Whole.” His voice drops, but I don’t answer out of fear that he’ll hear the lie in my voice. “Did you know, Byron, that’s why I create? To feel.”

“You think you can create? Ren, you destroy. You’re sick, and a killer.”

Ren shrugs. “Then what makes you? Did daddy not beat the want out of you?”

I clench my jaw together, resisting the urge to kill him with my bare hands, but I continue to eat because my body needs it. And deep down... his words aren’t lies.

“Is that why you came for me? To finish the job?”

Ren smiles. “No. I came for you because you belong to me, and I want you to understand pain.”

“Whose pain? ”

He straightens up, slipping on the mask of the monster—beautiful and charming.

“Mine, of course. All my creations share my pain, Byron. It’s not about you. It’s about me.” His words would be enough to make me not want to eat, but I couldn’t. I needed the substance.

“Then bring it,” I say with a smile.

“It smells awful in here,” he says, changing the subject, and pinching the bridge of his nose like I disgust him. I know what he’s doing. The false repulsion, the condescending amusement—he wants to humiliate me further, to make me feel like the filth he claims I am. But I don’t care. I stink, this space stinks. Yet coming from a man—let me correct myself, a monster—like Ren? It’s too childish.

The insults, this entire set-up… it’s child’s play for him. “Why did you bring me here?”

“What if I was just lonely,” he answers, his voice dropping. Lonely. I laugh at how weak and pathetic that is. I groan as I force myself up, my elbows trembling under my weight. My fingers are uncoordinated, shaking and desperate as I grab another piece of the meat with my bare hands. Ren hums, shifting in place. “You need help Ren.”

“That’s why you’re here—to help.” His tone is casual, almost lazy—but I know better. “Do you wish to help me?”

So instead, I ignore him and sink my teeth into the meat. I don’t need to savor it… I just bite and swallow, barely chewing.

The meat slides down my throat—thick, greasy, warm.

One bite.

Two.

Three.

And just like that, it’s gone.

Ren moves closer. I feel his presence before I see him, the air shifting. His body heat pressing into my skin as he gives my head a slow, condescending pat. His fingers weave through the soft curls beginning to grow — longer than usual, the fade completely grown out. “I like the curls growing in. You look less convict, more vogue.” My jaw tightens, but I don’t pull away. Suddenly, he moves away. While I lick the grease and bloodleft by the meat from my fingers, my eyes snap up to his. He’s watching. Always watching.

“What are you looking at?” I mutter.

Ren smiles. That all—knowing fucking smile.

“Nothing.” But before I can reply, Ren sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

“I want you to see me. See pain, Byron, understand it. See how I do. Can you?” He kneels in front of me, his voice so soft, so sickeningly sweet. “I think we understand each other, and I can offer you acceptance.” Taking a deep breath in, “So now that you’ve eaten, I’ll try this again,” he says smoothly. “Paint with me, and I’ll allow a shower. Maybe if you behave extra well, a good night’s sleep.” My body betrays me, aching at the thought of warmth, of water running over my filth-covered skin. As much as I want to smash his face into the ground, I have no choice but to play his game.

He thinks he has me beat.

Let him .

Let him believe it.

I’ll keep playing until it’s time to make my final move—the checkmate that will balance the scales.