The Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

At first, it’s nothing—just shadows in the red. But then? Eyes. Teeth. Mouths locked in silent screams. I smile—wide. The dry skin on my lips splits and bleeds, but I don’t stop. It’s beautiful—my own personal gallery in red and black hues. The blood isn’t just blood anymore. It breathes. It listens. And now, it talks—not in sound, but meaning. Rage. Hunger. Power. Old power. Forgotten. Waiting. I don’t just bleed—I conjure. The figures in the pool whisper without mouths, and the more I hurt, the clearer they become. My blood isn’t just leaking. It’s listening.

My vision flickered and spots of black clouded my sight, but I did not know why. It could not be grief, could it? That would be too humiliating. 'Lana Branch, you really misjudged him, didn't you?'

He whispered very softly. That was right before the doors of the ballroom blasted open with a loud Bang. The entire crowd, including me and Alex, turned towards the source of the sound. Damon. Damon stood in the door opening, two knives protruding from his chest. Blood covered his chest, dripping on the ballroom floor. There was a head wound on the side of his face. Keddrick and two other guys were next to him. The four men looked absolutely furious but Damon.... Damon looked like the devil himself. His eyes were pitch black and his razor sharp fangs were bared. Blood covered his chin and hands and it was quite evident that he just killed people.

CRIMSON “Do you know the story of the bloody werewolf rogue that was killed by his alpha? Do you know about that rogue that was hated by all of his pack and all the other packs that no one wanted him at all? Are you familiar with the story, child?” an old woman asked me while giving me a serene smile on her lips.

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.

He stepped closer to her, but the panicked her sliced ​​her palm with a knife and pointed it at him. "Stay away... My blood isn't radioactive, but you can melt if you touch this blood." She said, trying to scare him. Tommy rubbed his face with the palm of his hand several times. It felt like he wanted to let the devil eat her but pity her because she was too stupid. "I've killed him. It would be best if you remembered your promise, Ana. We will meet again." Jonathan whispered and just walked away like nothing happened. Tommy from the living room, who didn't hear anything, stood up like a dizzy person. What was happening just now seemed to force him to think.

I watched him as he walked out of my penthouse with determination and urgency in his steps and knew that he was going to make everything go smoothly as he usually does. I rest back against the couch I was seated on, closed my eyes, and smiled. If she thinks that she could just escape my clutches like that, then she’s got to think twice about that. But then the next minute, a frown replaced the smile on my face, as my thought drifted to the dangers that she was about to face soon. From past histories, the previous Blue Bloods weren’t able to overcome all the challenges they faced from the moment they were discovered before they were eventually killed.

This painting held so many memories that I didn't know how I moved from my seat or how I stood before the painting caressing it. “It's the original work of the not so famous artist, and mafia heir, may his soul rest in peace, Devon,” someone explained behind me, I didn't care to turn… I didn't want to, knowing that the fallen house of Devon was entirely my fault. I had played along with them, then at the last minute I struck, erasing the only mafia family that accepted me, except the Xavier's — it was my duty. I had to. My hands trembled as I felt the beautiful and smooth texture of the painting. I stared at the black and white painting; a little girl staring into a dark tunnel while holding

Cheeks wet from the tears a soft sob escaping from her lips only to be unheard even by the guy who is in the same room or a basement she assumed as there was no window around. One after the other the drop of blood dripped on the bucket as the boy with the grey eyes kept on painting over the canvas. The canvas is painted with deep red as the same replica of the women tied on the chair. The only colour that was upon it was red of different shades with its background in black colour. “Naa~naa~na~na~na~Naaa~Naaa~Na~” the smile turns into a smirk as he takes a deep breathtaking scent of blood. Making him cover his mouth with the back of his hand still holding the brush.

Alexander He gritted his teeth as he studied the image of his lycan above the marbled mantlepiece. The painting was done by a royal pack member, Paul Cezanne in 1858. The worth of the art was invaluable like the artist himself. No matter how much he tried to relax, it was impossible. His wolf was snarling and roaring in his head, wanting blood on his sharp canines. The blood of the enemy. A fucking necromancer. He will tear him piece by piece by nightfall tomorrow.