Page 100 of The Tattoo Artist

Because I hurt a man who abused her.

Her reaction made no sense to me.

“I don’t care if you’re upset with me, if you’re angry with me. I don’t give a fuck. He hurt you, he punched you and because of what? He deserved it,” I continue, my voice softer now, but no less determined. “No father should ever lay a hand on his daughter the way he did to you.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” She whispers, “fucking crazy!”

I shrug my shoulders, “crazy for you.” I respond.

“Don’t be smart mouth with me.” She warns.

“Can’t help it angel. You bring out the worst in me,” I tease, attempting to lighten the mood.

Her expression softens slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite her lingering apprehension. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Maybe,” I concede with a shrug, reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “But you love me anyway.”

“I don’t. I hate you.”

Her whispered admission sends a shiver down my spine, but instead of recoiling, I find myself drawn to her even more. “You do?” I ask, my voice tinged with amusement.

“I do, I hate you,” she insists, her tone defiant but with something else, something I can’t quite place.

“God, say it again, Alexandra,” I urge, stepping closer as she instinctively retreats.

“I fucking hate you,” she repeats, her words dripping with venom, but there’s a fire in her eyes that tells a different story. A low chuckle escapes my lips, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“It turns me on,” I confess.

In one swift movement, I grab her throat, pulling her fiercely against me as our lips collide in a fiery embrace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ARES NICOLAIDES

TWO YEARS AGO

JOEY WAS PISSING ME OFF.

“Are you serious?” Joey’s eyes remain fixed on the book in front of him as he nods, clearly engrossed in his reading. I sigh impatiently, tapping my foot on the ground. “Come on, Joey, I have to go pick up Adonis.”

He shoots me a glare, irritation evident in his expression. “Boy, if you don’t get out of my face this instant, the words on this page will be printed on your face!”

I roll my eyes, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. “Fine, ten minutes,” I grumble, storming out of the library and heading towards my parked car. Fumbling for my keys, I’m interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Let go!” The urgency in the voice snaps my attention, and I turn to see the woman from the alleyway the other day. What was her name again?

Alexandra Jones.

I watch at she begins fighting of a man who had his hands around her bag, why does this have to happen whilst I am here? Do I help her?

Of course you do, you idiot.

But what if she’s one of those feminists who will then get irritated that I did. I don’t want to seem like a misogynistic bastard.

But the man then does something that I don’t like, he pushes her right onto the ground, I rush over to her and grab the back of the man’s jacket before throwing him onto the ground. Her bag flies out of his hand to the side of the road, I use this chance to hover over him and slam my fist right into his face.

With a swift motion, I deliver another punch straight to his face, the satisfying sound of impact echoing in the air. As he crumples to the ground, subdued, I turn to Alexandra, offering her a hand up. But she pushes it away and helps herself up, walking over to her bag which rested on the edge of the road. She picks up the items that had fallen out, and the man that once rested on the floor has now disappeared.

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