Page 9 of Dance with the Devil

And nothing is going to stop me from having that.

Not even the man who is sitting on his rolling stool, head bowed over the iPad resting in the crook of his elbow, the long, white pencil moving while he’s completely oblivious to the way that I’m paying far more attention to how he loses himself in his drawing than to most of the designs in the book on my lap.

I know what he’s doing, besides driving me crazy with his nearness. I asked him after we exchanged numbers and started to text, what was up with the way he first met me and instantly asked me to dance for him.

He called me his muse. That my graceful dancing inspired him to draw that butterfly, and the pale blue color of my eyes led him to create a sleeve for a customer based on a galaxy design, complete with a bright gold nebula of stars the same shade as my hair…

Almost as soon as I sat down before, after we caught up—Cross asking after Orion, me using my new friendship to learn more about the state of the truce between the Sinners Syndicate and the Libellula Family than I ever would’ve if I only had my brother to rely on—he gestured for me to get comfortable, then grabbed his Apple pencil to sketch.

I tried to peek at what he was drawing, laughing when Cross tilted the screen back so I couldn’t. It’s another little game we play. In my experience, as soon as he’s done, he’ll be more than happy to show me, but not until the perfectionist that he is finishes it down to every detail.

Cross is quiet. That’s one thing I learned. He seems like a sensitive soul, and when his dark eyes don’t have that heated look, I can’t ignore the sadness that lurks there.

I want to know what made him so sad.

I want to know everything about him.

I’m an open book. When Cross asks me about my ambitions, my experiences, my past, and my relationships—with Christopher, who I’m pretty sure he’s jealous of, and with Damien, who he seems smartly wary of—I’m so flattered that he cares about me… about Genevieve… about his butterfly… that I tell him everything.

You know what I’ve learned about Cross in the last month and a half?

He’s been a Sinner since the syndicate formed, mainly because he went to high school with Royce McIntyre—a highly ranked Sinner, and the mafia fixer who killed Kieran Alfieri for what he did to Nicolette Williams, the pretty blonde waitress I recognized at the Devil’s Playground. Nicknamed ‘Rolls’, he’s Cross’s oldest friend, and reallyonlyfriend, and I’m irrationally pleased that Cross is hesitant to introduce the two of us, not because I’m related to the head Dragonfly, but because he considers Rolls too handsome for his own good.

Please. The man is married. I have no interest in going after someone else’s husband, and though Cross is careful with what he shares, I pointedly asked him if he was single right before I coyly convinced him to exchange numbers with me.

I’d have to get over my silly crush if he wasn’t. He seemed curious when I pushed the topic, finally admitting that he doesn’t really do relationships and hasn’t had one in a while. That was his way of reminding me that we’re destined to be friends, but poor Cross. He didn’t know how determined I could be just yet. By confirming he was single, that just gave me the go ahead to continue this forbidden friendship while hoping it grows into something more.

So I know about Rolls. I know about his loyalty to the Sinners, and how he doesn’t just cater to the syndicate: he’s the official tattooist for the syndicate. I know that he’s as lonely as I am, and whatever happens, we both honestly did need a friend.

His family is gone. I learned that one, too, and wasn’t that an ‘open mouth, insert foot’ moment? I mean, how was I supposed to know that the flames on his neck and his throat were a memento to the brother, sister, and mother he lost in an apartment fire when he was a kid?

Then again, when Cross humors me, shoving up his sleeves so that I can dissect the art on his one, and I saw that he has three names scrawled in script on his left arm… that should’ve been a sign that he cared enough about three someones once.

Jealous and as emotional as ever, my first instinct was to think that they were previous lovers who earned their spot on his skin. Yeah. I was wrong about that, and Cross reminded me that not only does he purposely avoid committed relationships, but he often counsels his clients not to get a permanent tattoo for someone who isn’t a permanent fixture in your life.

Right. Message received, and that’s about when I stopped treating him as a future conquest, finally seeing my sensitive artist with the sad eyes as something even more precious: a friend I can rely on.

From texting late at night to sending him videos I took of me, dancing in my studio, receiving a piece of art inspired by me in return… it’s been a little more than six weeks since I bumped into him, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve known him so much longer.

Then again, maybe it’s because—for the first time in forever—I can forget that I’m Damien Libellula’s baby sister when I’m with him.

My heritage doesn’t faze Cross one bit. In fact, when I first texted him the night after we met, asking if he’d like to meet for coffee somewhere since that’s what I figured dating was like, right? Getting coffee… when I invited him out and he didn’t hesitate to offer to pick me up on his motorcycle, I couldn’t help myself.

We didn’t get coffee. He suggested a twenty-four-hour diner on Sinner turf, and as I dipped one of my disco fries into the gravy, I had to ask, “Aren’t you afraid of my brother?”

Cross had a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup in front of him. He thought about it for a moment, nibbled on a piece of the pancake, then shook his head. “I’m not afraid of that,” was his answer, and I’ve been intrigued ever since.

He’s clearly not afraid of Devil; he’s a loyal Sinner, but not a die-hard like my brother’s enforcers are. My being related to Damien doesn’t bother him at all. And yet…I’m not afraid ofthat.

So whatishe afraid of?

I don’t know, but like everything else when it comes to this enigmatic man, I won’t stop until I find out.

Our silence is strangely companionable. At home, I nearly always have music playing; if not out loud, then it runs like a loop in my head. But Cross uses the quiet to concentrate, and I find myself so drawn to the slope of his nose, the edge of his jaw, and the muscles flexing on his tatted arm as he gives all of his attention to his drawing that I can sneakily watching him without him realizing.

He lives above his studio, but the two of us hang out downstairs on the rare chance that my brother tracks me down. I have the same excuse at the ready that I always do: Cross offered to give me my first tattoo. That’s why I always grab one of the design books when we’re spending time together in his space, even though I’ve told him I’m not ready to get rid of my virgin skin status.

As for the other virgin state I’m in…

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