Page 33 of Their Princess

Graff. The tattoo artist and Tail Guard in the LA chapter, according to the intel I’d gobbled up from what Massimo had shared.

Information was power when it came to strategic bets. In both combat and the criminal underworld, that bit of wisdom applied. I still needed more on the members of the MC to keep Adelina safe... all because her father fucking couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

And her betrothed didn’t seem to give two shits about her. That meant she got a broken and less than worthy veteran to do the job.

She deserved better.

Everyone else had jumped when Sas told them to scatter. The club bunnies hadn’t returned, nor had Duchess, who had been behind the kitchen island. I couldn’t quite categorize her as one of the bunnies or sweetbutts, because she seemed older. And wise beyond everyone’s years here.

I made a mental note to get myself well into her good graces as I wandered over to Graff. He sketched in a book with frayed edges that made it look like it had been to war and back. The doodles on one page overlapped, nothing like the clean lines of the belladonna on the outside of the building. His doodles included figures that were half human and half animal—was that a monkey riding a unicycle?

In the one image, though, the members of the club stood around, each with their patches drawn, and the cartel’s Rojasbrothers all had snake heads. It surprised me how much it resembled and symbolized the scene we’d just experienced.

Graff raised his head.

“I can see your style in your tattoos,” I said, trying to give my best compliment without stepping over a line with a man I didn’t know.

Besides the doodling on the page, the same inked swirls and sharp edges ran up his arms, partially hiding under his T-shirt, and bloomed on his neck above his cut. The ink covered most of his visible skin, all the way down to his knuckles. I imagined the rest of his body would be covered too.

“You’re good,” I said.

“I know.” Graff quirked one side of his mouth into a half smile. “But I like to hear it, anyway.”

I jutted my chin at a canvas hanging near the table. “That yours too?” I asked.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not my favorite piece, but the bunnies were complaining the clubhouse looked too drab. They asked for colors.”

I arched an eyebrow in question.

“I normally do black and whites with a pop of one color.” He scratched the side of his pencil along one line, feathering the dark shadow away from the snake’s head.

That much was clear in his own ink, but the art surprised me. I didn’t realize any of these bikers gave a shit about the bunnies outside of using them for a hole to fuck. “And the graffiti? Belladonna?”

His mouth thinned into a line, but he gave a curt nod. “Our sweetbutts like flowers.” He placed the pencil in the center of the page and lifted his eyes, pinning me with a sharper than expected look. “Most people don’t recognize it.”

“I once knew someone who favored the flowers.” I shuddered at the mental image of Massimo’s mother and the way PetraParisi stared sideways at me. I’d faced plenty of people who hated me simply because I represented America, but that woman scared me more than the truly badass enemies I’d faced. “Hell, she probably favored the other uses more.”

“Is that so?” Graff crossed his arms on the top of the island.

I chugged another few gulps of beer but made a small affirming grunt. Sighing after the drink, I asked, “Didn’t want to make roses for the girls?”

“Nah.” He chuckled. “Only person in the club who gets roses is Wilde.”

Interesting. I recalled the rose on Wilde’s neck. There had to be a story there, but I was too new to ask. Instead, I kept the small talk rolling. “But you can do roses?”

“I can do anything.” A challenge sparked in his eyes. “What’re you looking for?”

“Still figuring that out.”

Sliding my jacket down my arm and then rolling up my T-shirt sleeve, I showed off my arm to Graff. He studied it, his eyes dragging across my skin. He really was an artist, looking at my past work. It was a concoction of tattoos, some from the desert in the Middle East and others from Las Vegas. I could’ve spread them out on my body, yet they crisscrossed, tying together.

“It’s only a start of the sleeve,” I said.

“May I?” asked Graff, raising his fingers to my skin.

“Go ahead.”

He prodded my skin lightly, brushing his fingers over the lines. He looked off the tip of his nose as he traced the tattoos, connecting one from another. It was all under his appraising hardened eyebrow.

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