Page 1 of The Tattoo Artist

PROLOGUE

DIAVOLOS

YES I LIKE WATCHING HER.

It’s a privilege I relish, a secret indulgence that consumes me in the darkness of the night. For in those stolen moments, she is mine and mine alone, a muse to inspire the darkest corners of my soul. And as I watch her, I can’t help but wonder if she knows the power, she holds over me, if she realises just how deeply she’s captured my heart.

I watch her through her window.

The way she removes her shirt, throwing it to the side.

She likes to paint naked.

I know that about her.

She hates getting her clothes dirty-or maybe she just feels more of a connection with the canvas when she’s half-naked.

She always has a bowl of pomegranates beside her. She savours each juicy bite, the crimson juice staining her lips as she sucks delicately on the spoon. She ties her hair up into a bun, to stop paint from staining those curly strands. But she always settles the used paintbrush behind her ear, so paint still ends up staining.

Like I said, I like watching her. And only her.

Watching her, and only her, is a privilege I relish.

And something I dared to take for granted.

So yes, I like watching her, but I don’t like her watching me. Those dark brown eyes seem to catch me in my most vulnerable moments, like she can see right through me. It’s unnerving, the way she raises from her chair with a grace that belies her intensity, and walks towards the window, as if seeking solace in the darkness beyond.

I can feel her gaze lingering on me, probing, questioning.

It’s as if she knows the secrets I’ve been trying to keep hidden, the desires I’ve been trying to suppress. And yet, there’s a certain allure to her scrutiny, a dangerous temptation that pulls at the edges of my consciousness.

I try to look away, to break the spell that she seems to have cast over me. But her presence is like a magnetic force, drawing me in despite my best efforts to resist.

And instead of running, hiding, or screaming, she smiles.

She smiles.

She smiles.

She fucking smiles.

But this isn’t just any smile—it’s a smile that slices through the darkness like a gleaming blade, sharp and merciless. It’s a smile that speaks of secrets whispered in the dead of night, of desires that dare not be spoken aloud.

Her lips curve upward with a wicked delight, revealing the glint of mischief dancing in her dark brown eyes. She grabs her curtain, slowly dragging it closed.

And in her eyes, I find the truth that I’ve been searching for all along. I am utterly, irrevocably, hers.

And she belongs to me.

She is mine, and only mine, and I will kill anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

Such as this man staring right at her naked self besides me.

I slide my knife out, shaking my head.

He shouldn’t be doing that.

CHAPTER ONE

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