Page 45 of The Tattoo Artist

His artwork.

My heart was beating out of my chest, and now I’m trying to find ways where I can offer an explanation to my brain that Ares is not Diávolos! Ares cannot be him! Ares wouldn’t do that to me, he wouldn’t manipulate me like this! He wouldn’t treat me like a game.

“I need to use your car,” I whisper urgently, my mind racing with a need for answers.

Catherine raised a sceptical eyebrow but didn’t protest. She opens her bag and hands me her car keys without a word. With a swift nod of gratitude, I rushed out of the college, heading straight for the car park, and swiftly unlocked her car.

I threw my belongings inside and sped off in the direction of Ares’ tattoo shop. I hate driving. I don’t like it. But this is urgent. This is urgent!

Questions, confusion, and the desperate need for clarity consumed my thoughts. The drive to his shop felt like an eternity, with the weight of uncertainty growing heavier with every passing second.

Finally, I arrived at the front of the tattoo shop.

My heart was pounding in my ears as I park the car right outside and hastily got out, I slam the door closed- my steps quickening towards the entrance. Aliza, Ares’ receptionist, attempted to stop me, but I couldn’t be deterred.

“You can’t go back there!” Aliza yelled out; her voice filled with concern.

Ignoring her plea, I push past and hurried down the tight hallway until I reached Ares’ door. My hand shook as I grab the handle, taking a deep breath to steady myself before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, and the sound of buzzing tattoo machines filled the air.

“Alexandra? What are you doing here?” Ares stands up from the chair, dropping down the pencil that once sat in his hand. Ares glances at Aliza, who had followed me in, and then back at me.

Without hesitation, he instructs Aliza to leave, and she quietly closes the door behind her, leaving us alone.

“What’s going on?”

My emotions were a jumble of hurt, suspicion, and anger.

“Who are you?”

Ares leans against the desk, arms folded, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s funny how I never realised before,” I said, my voice tinged with bitterness as I recalled Catherine’s words. “how I never noticed the small details until today!”

“Alexandra.”

“Do not interrupt me!”

“What is going on?” He whispers, trying his best to compose himself against me. I could tell I was angering him by leaving him with questions of the situation.

“Raise your shirt.”

He looked taken aback by my request, a simple request. If he weren’t hiding anything he would have done so. But instead, he questioned me.

“What’s this about?”

“I said raise your shirt,” I repeat, my voice growing more insistent. Deep down, I hoped he didn’t have what I feared to find. I hoped. I begged even.

“I can’t do that, Angel,” he said softly, this time not using the affectionate nickname he often called me. No more butterfly. But this confirmed it all.

Angel.

Angel.

Angel.

“Angel,” I whisper, my heart sinking as I turn my necklace around, revealing the word ‘Angelos’ - Greek for ‘Angel.’

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