She shudders out a breath. “I figured. Okay. So. This is gonna be awkward as fuck, but since it’s better coming from me than your brother… you might want to take a couple of tests, Gen.”

I’d thought the same thing, then shoved it out of my mind. Cross wasn’t a virgin. I knew that. I also believed him when he told me he hasn’t had any one-night stands in the last year for no other reason than he wasn’t interested in having one. I chose to think that meant he was clean, and prayed that he hadn’t lied to me.

He said he would protect me. Keep me safe. Never let me go… and that was a fucking whopper, wasn’t it?

“I think I’m fine.”

“But are you pregnant?”

My heart skips a beat. “What did you say?” Savannah gives me a bewildered look, and I quickly clarify my surprise by adding, “Okay. I just told you I was a virgin when I went into the cell. That doesn’t make me an idiot. I know that unprotected sex can lead to a baby, Savannah, so if you could stop looking at me like that, I’d appreciate it.”

She winces. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I know. And it’s fine. I’ve thought about that. I don’t know if it’s too soon to tell”—God, it’s only been aweek—“but if it happened, we’ll call Dr. Vargas back up and he’ll help me get an abortion.”

“If I’m pregnant, I’ll have an abortion.”

I’ve always been pro-choice. A woman’s body belongs to her, and abortion is healthcare in my mind. I don’t regret sleeping with Cross, no matter why I had to, but if he left some of him behind? I’ll take care of it, and I’ll move on.

He sure as hell did.

EIGHTEEN

CROOKED

CROSS

The new soldier looks down at his fresh ink and frowns.

In my rolling chair, my back goes stiff, my body still. I’d already finished the shading on his devil horns and the matching tail, and was grabbing the plastic wrap to bandage him up when he sat up and started scrutinizing it. The frown is just enough to catch my attention out of the corner of my eye, and I wait.

Pax’s frown deepens.

I drop the plastic wrap down on the tray, knocking over the leftover ink onto the paper towel beneath it. “Something wrong with your tat?”

The kid startles. I know why, too. Like most Sinners, I have a rep in the syndicate. I’m cool-headed with a steady hand, more quiet than anything, the stereotypical artist who uses his own body as a canvas. I’ll joke around with those I know well, though not even my closest pals know the depths of my past beyond the fact that a fire stole my family, and I moved from one neighborhood to another until I settled in with my last foster placement at fourteen. I was a loner in high school whofound an unlikely friend in golden boy Royce McIntyre, and with Rolls being Devil’s second-in-command now—and my being the syndicate tattooist—that’s the reason behind my elevated status on the West Side.

If the new soldier knew I bit the tip off of Mickey’s cock because he threatened to sexually assault my butterfly, he wouldn’t have shot me a side-eyed look after frowning at my work—though he sure as shit nearly slips off the leather chair when I snap at him.

Pax wasn’t expecting it. Too bad. So I kept to myself before, and am even more of a recluse since being rescued with Genevieve. That doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and let him act like my work’s not good.

No one frowns after I get done with them. Confidence in my needle is all I have left, and I’ve done hundreds of Sinners brands, from Devil himself to even his sweet, little wife.

So when Pax shakes his head and says, “Nah, man,” I can’t let it go.

“You’re still frowning, newbie.”

Pax bristles at the nickname. Glancing down, he twists his forearm so he can get a better look at the design.

I wait some more.

He offers it to me. “I dunno. It look crooked to you?”

I grit my teeth at the implication. My eyes are bleary, my head pounding, and this twenty-two-year-old kid has the nerve to pick apart my ink? I came all the way to the back offices of the Playground to tat him because that’s my job, and because I always do a Sinner’s brand on-site instead of at my studio, but no matter how much my world feels like its spinning off its axis, there’s one thing I will always pride myself on: professional tattoos every single fucking time.

“You approved the stencil when it went on,” I remind him.

Depending on the client, I either draw freehand or use a stencil as a guide. The devil horns are muscle memory at this point, but since this was Pax’s first tat, I let him choose the size and position of where he wanted Devil’s brand on him.