Page 11 of Inked & Bloodbound

Fine. He’s not bad for a psycho

He’s notjusta psycho, though. He’s a liar, too. He’s lying about my mom’s tattoo and about saying that stuff in Italian. It was clear as day. Like a radio tuning through static then landing on a foreign station. It kept happening as he worked on me, but I never saw his lips move.

I know he’s not telling me the truth. I just can’t prove it.

“Cash or card?” he grunts, his full lips pressed together tightly.

I hand over my card and run my fingers over the saran-wrapped patch under my ribs. It stings, but in a good way. Almost like it’s grounding me, and I relax a little. I may not have gotten the answers I wanted, but I think Mom would be proud that I did this for her.

There’s a darkness to him. It’s extremely destructive, and it’s extremely fucking sexy. He’s a bubbling tar pit with a neon welcome sign, drawing me in and inviting me to drown.

“Thank you so much, I love it.” I beam, trying to disperse the tension, but he offers nothing but a curt nod in return.

I guess that’s it. The only lead I had and the closest thing I’ve had to a connection in a long time, and it’s over. At least I have a tattoo to show for it.

Cassini goes stiff, slowly tilting his head like he’s heard something in the distance. His jaw tightens, and that dangerous look in his eyes shifts from irritation to something that makes my heart drop.

Dread.

A loud bang sounds as the door flies open and reveals a man stumbling through the entrance. Actually, the word “man” is generous. Despite an oddly handsome face, he’s more like a walkingdisaster—long, greasy hair that’s balding on top, his beer gut straining against a bloodstained Metallica T-shirt.

The atmosphere shifts, and my skin prickles all over, like someone is running an electric current straight through my bones. As he passes, the smell hits immediately: stale beer, unwashed armpits, and something metallic. Something that smells very much like blood.

In thirty seconds my mood has shifted from uneasy to terrified. I can’t move. I’m too afraid to in case I become a target, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t notice me. He staggers up to the desk, reaches out a filthy hand to hold on for balance, and sends a tower of aftercare balms clattering to the ground.

“Where’s that fuckin’ redhead?” he roars, slamming his hands against the tiles on the desktop. “The one with the nice ass.”

“Tegan’s not here, Cyrus,” Cassini says uneasily, running a hand through his hair and lifting the partition to create a path. “Come on, man, you’re drunk. I think you’ve had enough. You wanna come back and lie down for a bit? Maybe sober up?”

“No!” he shouts. “I want her. I need to see her. I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s driving me crazy.”

“I told you, man. She’s done for the night, and even if she wasn’t, I don’t think you wanna see her looking like this.”

The drunk sways from side to side, like he’s trying to focus, hiccups, and then jabs a fingernail into Cassini’s chest. “Alright, but I still wanna take a bite out of that bitch someday. Angel promised me a taste.”

A chill dances up my spine. Cassini seems uneasy, and if a guy like him is afraid, then I know I should be too. He motions Cyrus forward behind the partition, and his eyes search for mine. He subtly signals to the door behind me, and I get the message and start backing away.

Cyrus is still ranting about Tegan when I reach the door. My shaking hands grasp the handle, and I ease it open just a crack—but the damned bell above betrays me with a sharp, unmistakable chime.

Oh, shit.

The sound cuts through Cyrus’ rambling like a gunshot. His headsnaps toward me, bloodshot eyes locking onto mine with sudden, terrifying clarity. The drunken stumbling act vanishes instantly. He moves faster than should be possible—one moment swaying by the desk, the next his hand wrapped around my throat, pinning me against the wall beside the door.

“What have we got here?" he snarls.

Fear knocks the breath from my lungs, and his grip tightens like a vise around my windpipe. I’ve been attacked by patients before, been slapped across the face by drunks and grabbed by psychotics, but this is different. His strength is inhuman and terrifying.

He leans in close, nose practically touching my neck, and inhales deeply like he’s savoring the scent of expensive wine.

“Oh, you smell very interesting,” he whispers against my skin, and his rotten breath, unnaturally cold, raises goosebumps across my flesh. “What is that deliciousness?”

Everything happens too fast for my brain to process. Just as darkness creeps at the edges of my vision, his hands fall away, and I’m left gulping air as Cassini materializes between us. Cyrus is somehow across the room now, crumpled against the wall like he’s been thrown by an invisible force. My vision blurs as I claw at my bruised throat, and through the ringing in my ears comes a sound that makes my skin crawl—a low, animalistic hissing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Cyrus wheezes, rubbing his jaw with a bewildered scowl on his face.

Now it’s his turn to choke. Cassini grabs him by the neck and slams him into a wall of frames, sending the glass splintering in every direction. When he attempts to fight back, Cassini slams him again, and again, until he goes limp.

“Don’t try me, Cyrus,” Cassini snarls. “You forget that I’m much older than you. I could end you if I wanted to.”