Painter Of The Night Novels & Stories

"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."

Not when you know the value. My gaze returns to Rayner. His eyes narrow slightly. “Oh? And you think you’d do better?” A small smile tugs at my lips. “At least I’d know when to push.” Before he can respond— “Here is our final piece for tonight.” My attention snaps back to the stage. “It is B.B.’s newest work.” The painting is unveiled. And everything fades. The room. The noise. Even Rayner. It’s… breathtaking. Soft light spills across the canvas, blending into deep shadows that don’t feel dark, but comforting. There’s a figure—barely defined—standing at the edge of something vast.

All through the night, I struggled to sleep. It wasn’t the pain of Owen’s betrayal spinning through my mind. It was the man with the German accent. Why did he seem so familiar? His voice, his scent, everything about him screamed aristocrat. He looked debonair. Six foot three inches of well tone muscles, as if he had been working out for several years. This was the type of physique she had seen illustrated in vintage paintings and old movies like Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. A classic, look of grace and stature not know to modern day men. As I laid on the floor in dead silence, staring at the ceiling. I felt like I was staring into a vast void of nothingness. My brain puzzle about it, i

He had escaped the cage, but he had brought the keeper with him in his head. Driven by a restless energy that bordered on mania, he began to paint. He worked with a ferocious intensity, forgoing sleep, often forgetting to eat. The pristine white canvases provided by the residency became his confessionals. He didn’t paint the beautiful landscape. He painted his nightmares. He painted dark, twisted corridors that mirrored the service stairwell of his escape. He painted fragmented faces—his own, Caius’s, his father’s—all merging into one anguished scream. He used his hands, smearing paint, carving into the surface with the ends of his brushes. The works were raw, powerful, and deeply unsettling

It was the shattered geometry of their faith. He worked for hours, forgetting the time, forgetting the hunger, forgetting himself. He worked from charcoal to paint, squeezing tubes of umber and Payne's grey and viridian onto a palette in direct contact, combining them not with a knife but with fingers, the cold greasy paste a pleasant sensation against his skin. He used the paint not with brushes, but with rags, with the heel of his hands, with the side of his fingernails. He depicted the Panopticon, but not as a prison of disciplined surveillance. He depicted it as a jail, the middle seat empty, the shelves leaning inward, on the point of collapse, the books and artifacts rendered as scream

Her muffled sob echoed throughout the large cabin. She looked outside the glass window that covered one side of the building. It was dark and the sky wasn’t that clear. More tears rushed down her cheeks as her eyes accidentally fell on the clock. It was 11 PM and she didn’t know how she was going to get home. There were definitely people in the hospital as so many people needed care and duty doctors for emergencies but her shift was over hours ago. She wasn’t going to find a bus home as she lived far from her workplace.

she had yearned for this time all day to be alone. And after years of planning. tonight she did not want to plan what she was going to paint, and she didn't want to know what the end product was, but she merely took a brush, and paint and started working on a clean canvas. She worked until her hands went numb. she labored on that canvas for six hours straight. for her, this was more than just painting. she bared her soul on that canvas. it was close to midnight by the time she turned off the lights and dragged herself to bed. all things considered, it was a perfect day.

Why is your drawing room so bright? He opened his eyes wide, a thought suddenly popped into his head. Peter strode quickly to the drawing room, standing outside looking in, Mia still hadn't come home. He didn't say a word, and gently walked inside, the woman was still looking at the picture of herself, dumbfounded, not knowing he was entering. All paintings are drawn by him with a pencil, even though there are only two colors, the characters still appear in the picture, and they are still very vivid.

“You better rest now. Contact me or your mother if anything happens, alright?” The painter just simply answered with a ‘yes’ before he hung up. He then put his phone back on the nightstand and covered his eyes with his arm. His mind was tangled, but he had to force himself to sleep. It didn’t take long for René to fall asleep peacefully. His beautiful eyes were closed, his breath sounded regular, and he fell into a deep sleep. Hour after hour passed. The digital clock on the painter’s nightstand showed 00:05 as the young man slowly started to get up from his bed. The bolster he had been holding fell helplessly to the floor.

Nighttide was known for being extra secretive and protective; all that was known about them was that their army and warriors were mighty, and they were ones every pack – neighbouring or afar – wanted an alliance with them. Though their preservative instincts kept them hidden within the shadows, literally. Clicking through pages and pages of historical articles, Suki finally came across a picture – no, a painting – of a forest. It looked as if whoever created the image had done so from the sky, perhaps being up in the mountains. The painting itself presented a beautifully open forest, lit by the sun, but there was a patch that wasn’t catching any rays – a small, misshapen oval completely engu