Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

I say on her couch, looking at her sleepy form, her cheeks were wet from her tears. I'm about to shed a human's blood and paint it on the streets of New York City.

I cried for help, but I knew no one would come. Just when I thought that might be my last night alive, the beating stopped, and I heard someone crash hard into something. I opened my eyes to see what was happening, but Nickson and his friends had run away, and I became scared. A few seconds later, A guy in a blue hoody came to help me up. I didn't know who he was, but he was very handsome and pleasing to the eyes. Realising he might be a Blood member because he had no badge, I quickly looked down.

“So you can either be the one posing on the couch, behind the canvas or be the one whose blood I will use in replacement for paints.” I suppressed the sob that wanted an outlet. “You... you've killed my sister, haven't you?” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks the moment I said the last words. His statement told me the obvious. I heard he does not only drink the blood of his victims, he goes as far as using the blood to paint on his canvas victoriously.

She handed it to me with a quiet, fierce pride. I looked at the image. It was the five of us Dante, Silas, Willa, Leo, and myself, standing on the terrace of the Nexus. But she hadn't painted us as we were. She had painted us as we felt. We weren't figures of power or shadows of greed; we were figures of light, our edges blurred into the vibrant colors of the city we had saved. There were no guns in the painting. No vaults. No encrypted terminals. Just the five of us, standing in the center of a world that we had finally made right. "It’s finished, Julian," Willa said, her eyes bright with a fierce clarity. "The 'Blood Audit' is a relic. The 'Art of Falling' is a foundation. This... this is

Neither of us had deserved to be the currency for our father’s sins, yet she had run, and I had stayed. I turned off the tap, drying my hands on a stray rag. Walking back to the easel, I stared at the large canvas. The dark, aggressive strokes of Prussian blue were still wet, capturing the storm I had been trying to paint out of my system before Martinez stormed in. The paint on the canvas was smeared in one section—where his bare chest had pressed into it during the chaos. A literal mark of his possession left on my only sanctuary. I picked up the phone, sliding it into the deep pocket of my robe, and walked out of the gallery.

I went to the car to hook up the dashcam. I really had to thank past-me for buying that thing. Even if it didn't capture faces inside the car, it still recorded audio. Freddie stood behind me, while Charles was behind Maeve. This way, no one could run. We found footage from two days ago. Maeve got in wearing that dress, sunglasses, and a mask. Unfortunately, the camera didn't catch her face clearly. As I watched the car tear down the road, my heartbeat matched the speed on the screen.

The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses. My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh. I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore. A massacre. And I smiled. They wanted a masterpiece? I’d give them one they’d never forget.

I'm sure my religious Russian mother would've had a heart attack if she knew what I was doing right now, but I couldn't be bothered enough to care. A blank canvas has unlimited possibilities. While we start out painting the perfect picture, things don't always go as planned. Our canvas got smudged along the way. We accidentally mixed the wrong colors, and some of the lines turned out jagged. At the end of it though, it's ours, and that's what makes it priceless.

As usual, his eyes swept over the room with that bored, predatory glint — until they landed on the canvas. He let out a low whistle. “Oh. You finished it,” he drawled. “Yeah,” I replied, not looking at him. “Lucian finally brought me the right paint.” At that, Caisen snorted — a sharp, humorless sound. “Paint?” he said, smirking. “That’s a polite word for what it really is.” My brush froze mid-clean. Slowly, I looked up at him. “What…?” Caisen tilted his head, his grin widening, sharp and lazy. “You really didn’t know? That’s Diana’s blood you’re splashing around up there, I extracted it with my own hands.”

Sometimes getting her homework done is more valuable than thinking about these things, and it's only by focusing on them that she feels truly relaxed. On the bed, a business card lay there, on which were delicate, elegant inscriptions shining in the lamplight, also reflecting the slender figure of the girl. While writing, Rian suddenly stopped writing, took out her mobile phone, was about to text her best friend tomorrow who wanted to owe some money, when suddenly a strange message appeared. -Hi. I want to order more tulips, we can negotiate the price. This is a customer! Arrive at the right time!