Page 62 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Dominic

“Have you seen Ryker’s new back piece yet?” Ghost asks as we step out of my Camaro and into the parking lot of Soulrend Ink , the tattoo studio we’ve trusted for nearly a decade.

“No. He’s had it covered up all week,” I reply, raking a hand through my hair.

I stretch, leaning back until my spine cracks. The hour-long drive took longer than it should’ve thanks to the heavy city traffic, and I fucking hate traffic. It means I’ve been away from Wren longer than I anticipated.

I’m a needy son of a bitch. If I’m not touching her, I get ornery.

“He was laid out for twelve fucking hours straight,” Ghost says, grabbing the studio door and hauling it open. “He got an insanely detailed religious piece. Or sacrilegious, depending on how you look at it.”

“Fucking masochist,” I mutter, shaking my head as I step inside. He likes taking pain almost as much as I like causing it.

The familiar scent of antiseptic and ink hits me as we walk in. The walls are covered in framed artwork—black and grey realism, fine line horror, surrealist color explosions. There’s graffiti on the walls, too. Every single artist here is insanely talented .

I head for the front desk and grab a clipboard and pen so I can start filling out forms: basic information, a waiver, the standard paperwork for any tattoo appointment.

Ghost drifts up beside me, flipping through the flash binder with disinterest.

“So,” he says, cocking a brow without looking at me, “this your version of an engagement ring?”

I smirk. “I guess it is.”

My brothers were really happy when we announced our engagement. Ryker made a comment about Wren being “our future wife,” which resulted in me punching him in the throat. He didn’t find that funny, but I sure as fuck did.

“You gonna get her name all the way across your chest in giant block letters?” Ghost teases.

I let out a low laugh, a quiet rumble in my chest. “Just over my heart.”

“Amateur,” he mutters, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “And you’re planning on marrying her? Go big or go home, brother.”

I lean over and shoulder-check him, drawing a low chuckle in return.

When Maverick calls us over, I strip off my shirt and sink into the familiar black leather of the chair. He’s prepping the stencil when his gaze sweeps across my body.

“Your ink still looks dark as hell. You take good care of it,” Maverick points out, peeling the backing off the stencil and placing it on the right side of my chest .

Wren’s name is written in jagged black letters, matching the theme of the rest of my dark ornamental ink.

“It healed fast. Didn’t seem to need any touch-ups.” I say, watching closely as he presses the stencil over my heart.

“Some assholes are just lucky. Skin soaks up ink and holds it,” Maverick says with a smirk, while he pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and rips open a new package of needles.

Once I approve of the stencil placement in the mirror, I lean back. Maverick starts setting up while shooting the shit with Ghost.

Eventually, Maverick mentions, “Kent’s gone, by the way.”

Ghost stiffens. “You’re kidding.”

Ghost’s upper body is covered in ink, all of it done by Kent. Ghost is a picky fucker, his entire body looks like one cohesive masterpiece. An amalgamation of code, geometric patterns, animal skulls and moths.

“Yeah, man. His dad died, and his mom has dementia so he moved back home to England to help his sister care for her. Sucks to lose him, he’s amazing.”

“Well, fuck,” Ghost mutters. “I still had work I wanted done.”

“Our new girl’s insanely talented. You should check out her stuff,” Mav offers, nodding toward the far end of the studio where Kent used to be set up.

Ghost came along to book an appointment, so I imagine he’s kicking himself for not coming a month earlier when he originally decided on what to do with the final bit of space left on his back .

Ghost turns, his pale blue gaze catching on a series of massive, dark paintings mounted on the back wall next to Kent’s old station.

She’s talented, whoever she is. One painting is Gothic and detailed, depicting the damned being dragged to hell by grotesque demons, reaching up with their clawed hands to pull the screaming people down.

The canvas in the middle is a bear’s skull nestled in a bed of moss, with blood red flowers and pale mushrooms sprouting from the sun bleached bone.

The third, the biggest of the three, is a Death’s-head Hawkmoth, its wings outstretched and bound tight by the web of a black widow.

Ghost is mesmerized. He stands slowly, wandering over to the wall, his fingers brushing the textured ridges of oil paint. He pauses in front of the moth.

“What do you think?” A voice cuts through the low hum of the tattoo gun, feminine and lyrical. A woman steps out from the staff room, securing her long purple hair into a ponytail as she crosses the room and heads straight for him.

He turns his head toward her just as she stops beside him, her eyes lifting to her own work with a genuine smile. She extends one hand, her nails painted black, to adjust the painting on the wall and straighten it out.

Ghost stares at her wordlessly, like his brain fell out of his ears and he forgot how to be a human and speak words.

His gaze narrows, those icy eyes full of something I instantly recognize .

Well... fuck.

I know the beginning of obsession when I see it.