Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

On the third day, the dam broke. It started with a single slash of black paint across a pristine white canvas. It was an act of violence, a scream without sound. Then another, and another. He wasn't painting a picture; he was exorcising a demon. He used his hands, knives, rags, anything he could find. The colors were murky, violent: deep burgundy like old blood, sickly yellow like a bruise, charcoal black like a void.

By Friday, I was a jagged edge of nerves. This was my debut as a solitary wolf, without the Alpha’s ring weighing down my hand. The work I had bled into over the last seven weeks—pure, unadulterated fury—screamed from the walls. The centerpiece, a chaotic sprawl of crimson and black titled The Final Howl, was splattered with actual droplets of my own blood. I had pricked my fingers until they were raw to get the shade right. It was primal, a stark departure from the polished, soulless portraits I’d painted to please the Graves family.

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”

Rain turned to look at the man next to her who still maintained a calm expression on his face. Most of the blood that spurted out of Pietro’s hand landed on his face and his suit yet he looked so calm…he had a gun in his hand. He killed the man. Rain wasn’t sure what compelled her to move her body, she got up… she looked at him in horror. He didn’t look like he just took a life, he looked like—a demon—no, Lucifer himself. She took unconscious steps backwards. She couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t stand the sight of blood, she couldn’t stand the sight of…him.

She looked like a very cheerful person with a happy life. She also worried about her mom and her co-workers and then a man named Gabriel Micheal. She wondered if the cops were looking for her. She held his gaze and the hate he felt for her felt hazy because the scent of her blood was all around him. "Who are you?" She managed to get out of her chapped lips. "Your Master" he replied watching the emotions dancing across her face. Her mind was racing with different thoughts. Most of which ended with him being a psychopath who had a fetish for blood drinking. She wondered if she would be dead before they discovered her missing.

Noah promised, then left the penthouse with Tyler behind him. "We are ready boss." the bodyguard informed, bowing as he waited for the next line of instructions from his master. The boss was still standing and observing a gruesome painting that he had worked on himself a few months ago with a smile on his face. The painting which depicted the death of a whole family at the hands of a little boy laid in a thick frame, decorating the dark wall. "Lead the way." Ash Grey ordered and walked behind the bodyguard in a backward motion. When he reached the doorway, he finally tore his gaze away from the painting and started to hum a fast beat with his mouth as he walked.

I touched it again in different places, and it still felt like a regular painting. “Are you kidding me?” Frustratedly, I hit the painting with my fists and scraped my knuckles from the corner. Some of my blood splashed on the painting. I grabbed a cloth to clean it when I noticed it had disappeared. My blood was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at the cut on my hand and back at the painting. “Blood Magic,” I whispered as I touched the painting with my bloody hand. “Come on, grimoire. Come to me.”

She looks— Confused "I don't understand" I can't help the small laugh that leaves my lips "What's there not to understand? He's a psychotic maniac that likes painting with blood. That's fucking it" "I just—" She looks more lost now, because she can't put it together, or she does, but it's not making sense. "He uses animal blood. It's the only way to prevent him from not cutting himself and using his skin as an actual canvas" I cut in "He won't use other colors, just blood"

Ada Wood worked really hard. The painting's last corner was unfinished. She wished to complete the picture. Jump out of the arms of and then pick up the cans on the ground, facing his arm, hard to row down. He stretched out to grab the scarlet blood that was flowing from his arm. Then walk to the last corner, pick up the brush on the ground, stained with the blood of millions of cool cities, and continue to paint on it. Ada Wood's paintings in the last corner are vivid red, not roses. It's a lovely flower. It can only exist on the road of the yellow spring, no matter how lovely it is. stands peacefully alongside Ada Wood, allowing her to use his blood as paint.

The woman’s gaze met his with a combination of fear and defiance, the trembling hand on the knife, the only line separating life from something else entirely. Red trickled freely now. It fell onto her shoes, splashed onto the floor, yet still she painted. Each line, each curve, each shadow carried the weight of intent, of story, of power The crowd leaned in closer. A woman whispered, “She’s… bleeding. Is she okay?” Another muttered, “Look at the detail—how is this even possible?” No one understood. And yet everyone felt it—the tension, the dread, the impossible intimacy of predator and prey as seen in the painting.