Page 114 of The Tattoo Artist

“Sometimes I just sit here and think about what I would do with it, what I’d call it,” I confess, gesturing towards the building.

Her eyes gleam with excitement as an idea strikes her. “Oh! You should call it Temple.”

“Temple? What the hell does that have to do with tattoos?”

She grins mischievously. “Think about it. A tattoo parlour is like a sanctuary for people to express themselves, to adorn their bodies with art that holds personal meaning. It’s a place of reverence, of worship. So why not call it Temple? It’s where people come to pay homage to their inner selves, to celebrate their stories through ink.”

Her words resonate with me, and suddenly, the name feels perfect. “Temple,” I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. “I think I like it.”

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo.” She admits.

“So, get one.”

“I can’t. Parents. Catholic,” she chuckles out.

I slowly unzip the jacket I lent her earlier, my fingertips brushing against her abdomen before reaching the lower dip between her breasts. Her gaze locks with mine.

“A butterfly would look nice here, and here...” I murmur, trailing my hands to the sides of her waist, “a snake...” I touch the other side of her waist. “A spider.”

Her breath hitches as I touched underneath her left breast.

“Writing and here...” my finger trails along her skin.

Until I reach the middle of her neck.

“Another butterfly.”

“Do you have an obsession with butterflies now?” She asks, pushing my hands away, a hint of flush colouring her cheeks.

I can’t help but smile at her playful question. “I have an obsession with you,” I want to say, but the words stick in my throat, too heavy with meaning to be spoken aloud.

Now I am completely and utterly obsessed with you.

Instead, I rise to my feet, feeling a surge of determination coursing through me. Just do it, just kiss her! I urge myself silently. I stand tall, towering over her, waiting for her to stop me, to push me away, but she doesn’t.

My heart pounds in my chest as my lips hover over hers, the tension between us palpable. And then, without wasting another moment, I close the distance and press my lips against hers. She doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t even attempt to push me away; her hands rest on the side of my waist as our breaths mingle. Her lips were soft and yielding, moulding perfectly against mine, as if they were made to fit together.

I deepened the kiss, tasting the sweetness of her breath, losing myself in the heady rush of desire that pulsed between us. Our bodies pressed together, aching to be closer, as if trying to merge into one.

“You know this means you’re mine now Ares.”

I smirk.

Oh, I know that, Angel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

ARES NICOLAIDES

DIAVOLOS NEVER EXISTED UNTIL SHE FORGOT ME.

He never existed until my wife forgot about me.

She looked me in the eyes and asked if I was her doctor.

Do you know what that does to someone?

Luca took his revenge and caused her to lose every single fucking memory of me, and now he has her. He has her and I don’t know where he fucking is.

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