Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

Red and black. It shouldn’t startle me, but it did. Cause some of them were lewdly drawn. If you have no idea about Ralph Romano–consider yourself lucky among a limited amount of people, cause Ralph Romano’s disaster. A living alive spawn of satan–no–the devil himself. He paint with blood and conveys screams in his paintings, he was a world-renowned artist respected by many as well as feared. Including me. I hated him.

The entire country looked up to him, deemed him as some God. I could feel her eyes on me but I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away from the painting. When I had woken up from the nightmare after trying to sleep that night, I had seen red and poured it all out on the canvas. The red glowing hair in the sunshine and the red of my father’s blood. I had never painted such an abstract before but I couldn’t stop it, feeling overwhelmed and complex painting. My hair was mussed and the shirt was red with the splatter of red paint, oddly similar to the night where it was splattered with blood instead.

Before him, a projector displayed slides of Sheina Blake’s latest paintings. He stared at a painting dominated by maroon and dark black. There were white streaks in the center that looked like hands trying to reach for something, yet drowning. "If your life is so happy, why do you paint so many stories of suffering, Sheina?" Damian whispered to the screen. Suddenly, the double doors of his office swung open without a knock. Sharp, authoritative footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Damian did not need to turn to know who had arrived. The heavy scent of Classic Rose perfume immediately filled the room.

"Without looking over her shoulder for once." My phone vibrated in my pocket. Tiny's name flashed on the screen. "Report," I answered quietly, moving further from the bedroom. "Everything's clear, Alpha," my Beta's deep voice rumbled. "The painter has been vetted. Former art professor, human, no connections to any packs or supernatural factions." I stiffened. "What painter?" There was a pause on the line. "The one your Luna sat for yesterday. On the south beach. I assumed you knew."

I could pretend too. I set up a fresh canvas, squeezed out paint—deep crimson, indigo, burnt umber. Angry colors. I didn’t plan. Just attacked the blank space with broad strokes, letting the brush bite into the fabric. The city sprawled outside the glass, all sharp edges and cold light. I painted that first: jagged skyscrapers bleeding into a bruised sky. Then darker shapes—silhouettes of men with guns, hands reaching, mouths open in silent screams. And in the center, two figures locked together. One taller, broader. One defiant, reaching back even as he fought.

I grabbed the hem of Felix's shirt, fixed a pitiful expression on my face, and mumbled, "I believe you, Felix." Felix's expression softened as he helped me back to my feet. Taking advantage of the fact that the other wolves' attention was still on us, I retrieved a document from my bag and handed it to Felix. "I accidentally recorded your pup's blood type as AB when I registered his information last time. The truth is, his blood type is O." Felix's face twisted as he snatched the document from me. An eerie silence descended upon the hall. Everyone knew that all the wolves of the Blackrock pack had type-AB blood, making it impossible for a pup with type-O blood to exist in the pack.

She dropped into a seat at the back, breath still ragged from the graffiti’s shock. The teacher droned on about ancient wars, but Alice couldn’t focus. Her senses crackled, too sharp, catching the rustle of papers, the sour tang of sweat from the kid in front of her, the heartbeat of the girl doodling beside her. Her nails pressed into her palms, tingling, threatening to sharpen. The prophecy—Born of man and moon—was a cult’s script, not fate. She wanted to be the Alice who aced quizzes, not this weapon built to end the packs.

The palette is all darks with Prussian blue, burnt umber, alizarin crimson so deep it looks like dried blood. I load the brush and attack the canvas with strokes that splatter paint across the floor, the easel, and my arms. The image that forms is violent and shapeless, a battlefield rendered in oil, and I don't care what it looks like because I'm not painting for beauty right now. I'm painting to survive what Baker just told me. My father is innocent, Ryan's parents were murdered, Tasha's father paid for the cover-up, and the boy who destroyed my life was a puppet on strings held by the same man who destroyed his.

EDWARD'S SILENT DEAL NATHANIEL'S POV. I did my very best to execute my torture without getting my clothes stained. I didn’t want to start answering questions as to how I spilled paint on my body. The phrase, “A painter can’t paint a wall without getting stained.” Was something I totally disagreed from. I could paint a whole building without getting stained so long I took my time. I took the phrase as an experiment executing it on the bloody man that was right in front of me.