Page 99 of The Tattoo Artist

I slam him onto the wall again, throwing a hard punch right into his face as he begins to cough out blood. He then decides to man up a bit, and his fists slam into my face. My head turns to the side.

And a smile spread across my face.

Blood pours down my nose, not as much as his. I use my thumb and wipe it softly. I glance down and watch as it stains into my fingerprint.

“You punch like a bitch.” I whisper.

I taunt, wiping the blood from my nose with a grim satisfaction. With calculated precision, I deliver another punishing blow, sending him crashing into the wardrobe with a satisfying thud.

As he struggles to rise, I show him no mercy, driving my boot into his face with relentless force. The room fills with the sound of his pain, mingled with the cries of his wife, a symphony of vengeance in the darkness.

I crouch down, grabbing his shirt and pulling him up for our faces to line. “Come on Andrew, I thought you could do better…”

He coughs out blood.

“I dare you to touch my wife again, because if you do-it won’t be my fist next time. It will be a knife and two body bags.” I push him back inside the ruined cupboards and stand up, I see Catalina shaking her head at me-begging with her eyes to not touch her. I scoff, I don’t hurt women.

But my sister does.

I walk out of the bedroom, and back to Alexandra’s.

I grab a couple of things that she may need; her sketchbooks especially before heading down the stairs and into my car.

I slide my phone out and press onto her number.

“Ares.” Maria speaks.

“Maria, a couple by the name Andrew and Catalina will call the police station about me. Sort it out.” She sighs.

“My husband isn’t going to like this Ares.”

“Make him like it.” I end the phone call, knowing my half-sister will help me.

Reaching the cabin, I slide out of the car and head to the door, pushing it open to find her not on the couch as I had expected. I head up the stairs, pushing the bathroom door open as I unzip my hoodie and throw it to the side. I open the tap, the water pouring out as I rest my bloody hands beneath and watch it stain the sink.

I feel her presence before I even see her, her aura heavy with concern as I catch her reflection in the mirror. She stands by the door, arms folded across her chest, her gaze fixed on me.

“What did you do?” She whispers, her voice barely audible but laced with worry.

“Just sorted a few things out,” I reply nonchalantly, though the weight of her disappointment hangs heavy in the air.

She shakes her head in disbelief, a hand covering her face in frustration. “Ares, did you go to my parents’ house?”

I meet her gaze in the mirror, knowing that I can’t lie to her, knowing that she’ll see the truth written in my eyes. And she does. The disappointment in her eyes deepens as she reads my answer.

“Why did you go?” She asks, her voice trembling.

“Because they hurt you,” I say, my own frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Ares, you better not have hurt my parents. Tell me you didn’t hurt them!” she demands, her voice rising with panic.

“I did!” I snap back, turning to face her fully. “I hurt him like he hurt you!”

“Why? He is my dad!” She pleads, her voice breaking with emotion. “You shouldn’t have hurt him!”

“He’s a shitty father!” I retort, my own anger matching hers.

Is she really upset with me?

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