Page 120 of Sinful Lord

Over the past few hours, I’ve been occasionally sitting down at the stool and mixing colors on the pallet. I’m having a hard time adding anything, though. The painting has hardly changed.

Tytus will be upset. His orders were clear.

Paint.

But he didn’t give me much else to work with.

How could I add to the piece without learning anything new about my subject?

It feels like I’m at an impasse. Locking me in here was a huge step backwards, and it reminded me of who I once thought Tytus was.

A heartless monster with an ounce of humanity. That ounce of humanity is what hooked me in the first place. I’m not sure it’s enough anymore, not at this rate.

For a while, I thought I saw it growing before my very eyes. I could feel it’s warmth and its tenderness and I let it lead me along.

Now, though, I’m wondering if I wasn’t tricked; I’m wondering if I shouldn’t revise some of what I’ve already painted.

Am I truly capturing Tytus as he is, or what I want him to be?

It’s an impossible question to answer. And every time I lift my brush to change anything on the canvas, I freeze.

It’s the same feeling over and over again. A conflict.

Something just feels right—too right to change—no matter how wrong everything else is going.

Maybe it’s the captivity. Maybe I’m just so used to being locked up that I find comfort in the familiarity of it all. That would make sense. It would also be less troubling than the truth.

I’m falling for Tytus Ryzdon.

“Why?” I whisper, sitting back down on my stool. I try to find reason in my art, but I already know it doesn’t exist. The canvas is filled with chaos, a perfect reflection of my heart.

I pick up my brush, but it feels too heavy. All the confidence I’d gained back in Berlin is being washed away. Tytus has become less of an inspiration, and more of a distraction.

My thighs throb with a subtle heat. The pressure in my core won’t disappear. No matter how hard I shut my eyes; no matter how deep I breathe, I can’t shake the warm shadow blanketing me.

Tytus has trapped me. There’s no question about it.

But how do I escape?

“Fuck it,” I curse, tossing my brush aside.

With a loud huff, I throw myself on the bed. My legs open. My hand drifts to smother the wetness below.

Somehow, I can still feel the dried blood sticking to my skin.

It doesn’t matter how many times I shower, the proof of my inexperience is still there. Strangely, I’m almost ashamed of it.

Maybe he left because I wasn’t as good as he thought I would be.

The troubling thought flashes through my mind like a lightning bolt. It’s accompanied by a thunderous roar of jealousy.

Without warning, my mind latches onto the sex tape. His sex tape. The sex tape he made with another woman. A woman who was clearly far more experienced and willing than I am.

Stop it! I try to order myself. This isn’t just some thrilling little affair anymore. You’re officially a captive. Don’t misplace your anger or your disappointment. This is about you and Tytus, and no one else.

But no matter how hard my conscience tries to lead me back onto a reasonable path, I can’t seem to follow. My mind continues to veer down this dangerous detour.

“Where are you?” I mumble.