Page 10 of Inked & Bloodbound

“Are you?”

She laughs, and it slips straight past my guard, light and careless, hitting places I didn’t know were hollow until she filled them. “Probably. I’ve been having these headaches and a bunch of other weird things. She made me get brain scans, but they came back normal.”

“What kind of weird things?” I ask.

She’s hesitant. “Voices, mostly. Shadows moving when they shouldn’t. It’s probably nothing. Stress can do that stuff.”

“Sure,” I say, but an uneasy feeling tugs at me.

I finish the last bit of shading and sit back to admire the work. It’s good—clean lines, solid black that’ll hold its depth for decades. Theleaves crawl and twist naturally around her ribs and stretch towards her heart. It’s like they grew there. It’s beautiful.

“All done,” I say, as I reach for the balm and rub it into her skin.

“Oh,” she says as a flicker of disappointment crosses her face. She hops off the bed, and when she turns to face the mirror, her face lights up. “Oh my God, it’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.” She twists, trying to get a better view. “Thank you. Really, this is beautiful. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

Bella come il sole del mattino, I think, watching the way the light catches the gold in her hair.

“What was that?” she asks, turning to face me. “You say something in Italian?”

My entire body goes rigid.What the fuck?

She heard that? She heard my thoughts, clear as if I’d spoken aloud.

“Huh?” I manage to say, forcing my expression to stay neutral.

“You said something like ‘bella something’ just now… Then you saidwhat the fuck.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

She narrows her eyes. “You did, though. I heard you.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Why are you denying it?”

I force a casual shrug and busy myself cleaning the tattoo gun to avoid her piercing gaze. “Huh, well, if you say I did, then I guess I did. Maybe I was talking to myself. Bad habit.”

She turns her back to me, picks her scrubs off the ground, and pulls it over her body so fast she puts it on backwards.

“It’s getting late. You should go,” I say, throwing my tools and inks back on to the metal tray, causing a clattering to ring through the humid air of the shop.

My mind is racing. The headaches she mentioned. Hearing voices. Seeing shadows. And now this.

There’s only one explanation, and it’s not a good one.

If she is what I think she is, then she’s in danger.

We both are.

4

LILY

Well, this is awkward.

He’s looking at me like he wants to burn a hole straight through me. His dark green eyes narrow into slits, and something dangerous flickers behind them—something that wasn’t there moments ago when he was gently tattooing my skin and laughing at my jokes. Maybe my instincts about him were right.

I shouldn’t have shared so much, but I couldn’t stop myself. The words kept tumbling out. I wanted to tell him everything, and also know everything about him. I’ve watched enough true-crime documentaries to know that sometimes psychos are hot, or at least decent-looking, and they use their charm to pull you in.

But damn it, he really is that good-looking. The kind of olive-skinned, dark-haired perfection that usually exists in perfume adverts from the 90s. The sort of man you’d find brooding on a rock whilst waves crash around him and the voiceover says something about fading time, ocean water, and musk. His hair falls in effortless waves that seem meticulously engineered, and when he gazes up at me, those irritatingly long eyelashes frame eyes so green they resemble peridots.

He’s not bad from the neck down, either. The tight black T-shirthe’s wearing does nothing to hide his build—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, and ample chest. Dark ink crawls up both forearms in intricate patterns. I can make out crashing waves and twisted vines that disappear under his shirt and peek out at his collar—thick black lines tracing that tanned throat. When he gestures, talking with those strong, neatly manicured hands, I catch glimpses of more artwork wrapping around his biceps where the sleeves hug tight.