Page 144 of The Ecstasy of Sin

“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.