Page 55 of Dance with the Devil

Genevieve… Ididsave her. But I lost her just the same, and even though Rolls is right here with me, I can’t shake the loneliness that is my constant companion.

If I admit that to Rolls, he’ll worry about me even more than he already is. I can’t let that happen. It’s bad enough that I was gone without a trace for two weeks before Tanner figured out where Winter was keeping us. We’re out now. Life fucking goes on.

I know that better than most.

So, again, I change the subject. I ignore the ache in my head and the sensation of grit in my tired eyes to tease Rolls about what names he would choose for any future McIntyre baby. I promise I’ll find the time to clean up a little and head over to the penthouse of the Paradise Suites to pay my respects to Devil, Ava, and baby Clare. I even half-heartedly accept a dinner invite at Rolls and Nicolette’s place, and if I make an off-color comment about the time I did Nicolette’s cover-up and had her bare tit staring me in the face the entire time I inked a seahorse over the shitty dragonfly her abusive ex etched into her skin, Rolls is good enough to let it pass without becoming as jealous now as he did then.

Once he seems sure that I’m short-tempered due to lack of sleep, but otherwise as okay as I can be, he tosses his empty energy drink in my trash can, then tells me he’ll check in with me again about that dinner invite.

I make a noncommittal sound in reply, then let out a breath when he finally leaves.

Getting up from my seat, I fish the can out of the trash so that I can toss it in my recycling; with the amount I used to go through, I got into the habit of making sure I always recycled the aluminum. Grabbing the handle, I pull the door closed. A quick flick of the lock and I won’t be disturbed by any other Sinners ‘just walking by’.

I’d paused in cleaning up the rest of my station when Rolls walked in as Pax was leaving. I make quick work of it now, and as I’m about to put my tattoo gun away, I pause. Something Rolls said rattles around in my exhausted brain, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a jolt of clarity.

Only it’s not a shot of caffeine from an energy drink that clears my brain a little. It’s the sudden burst of inspiration that slams into me coupled with his words.

I wear my loyalty to Devil and our crew on my side, and my love for Nic near my junk…

I’ve lost track of how many tats I have exactly. I’ve done them all, except for the ones on my back. Those were gifts to me by the mentor who I first apprenticed with, but as soon as I knew that a life of ink and the buzz of a tattoo gun was my calling, I used my own body as my first canvas.

It was another addiction. The hit of dopamine I got from the pain as the needle dug into my skin, combined with the satisfaction of another piece of permanent art done flawlessly on my flesh was a rush that rivaled any drug for me.

I haven’t been inspired in so long, but after talking to Rolls… I know exactly what I want to do.

I’m an old pro when it comes to swapping out my needles from used to fresh, pouring out the colors I’ll need, and sticking the little ink cups to my tray with a dollop of vaseline. As soon as I’m prepped, I grab the large lighted mirror on its stand and move it nearer to my seat. Tugging off my shirt, I toss it over the headrest of my leather chair before glancing down at my chest.

I’ve never tatted my hands. No actual reason, really, other than that I know how much of a bitch it is for hands and finger tattoos to heal properly. I need my fingers; another reason why I wasn’t surprised Genevieve gave in and allowed me to have sex with her when it was my hands on the line. I’ve left my thighs alone, and I left my cock ink-free for the same reason as my hands.

But the left side of my chest? My heart died the same day that my family did. I never thought I’d feel love again—and then I met Genevieve. We can’t be together. I accept that. It’s not even because our respective gangs were once rivals and enemies—like we’re living a modern-day version ofWest Side Story—or that she’s too good for a damaged man like me. She is, of course, but if we’d never had been taken captive together… if we’d gone from rivals to friends to eventual lovers… there might’ve been a chance.

There isn’t one now. To pursue Genevieve would be selfish as fuck, and I can’t do that to her. Not when I can finally admit what I’ve known from almost the first moment I saw her dance.

I love her. She owns my heart—and as I grab the disposable razor and start shaving the nearly invisible hairs that cover my left pec, I decide to prove it.

Even if my butterfly will never know how much I belong to her, at least I will every single time I look in the mirror.

It’s better than seeing the monster that stole the last of her innocence.

When wasthe last time I slept for more than a couple of hours at once?

That’s the question that’s running through my mind as I park my bike as near enough to the back of the large white manor as I can without getting caught on Libellula’s cameras. Considering I’ve been run off by three different Dragonflies—and the old butler who came marching out from inside the big house—I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of their limits. I still push them, though, because Ineedto.

I need to see the light on in her studio. I strain my ears, hoping that the music from the third floor might filter down to me. Wishful thinking, yeah, since the roar of cars driving down the consistently busy roads would drown it out, but no one said that I was being rational.

In my admittedly delirious state, I know I’m not.

When was the last time I slept for more than a couple of hours at once? When I was holding Genevieve in my arms, and since that’s never going to happen again, this is the next best thing.

It’s been a week since Rolls came to visit me after I did Pax’s Sinners tattoo. For the sake of my old friend and his palpable concern for me, I tried to sleep after I finished inking my chest. I did everything I could these last few days. Melatonin. Benadryl. Any over-the-counter sleep aid I could get from the corner store. They all managed to knock me out, but staying asleep only to wake up alone in my bed?

Impossible.

I brace my boots on the asphalt, snorting under my breath as I realize how much my life’s changed. For years, my childhood trauma meant that waking up alone was agoodthing. The nightmares of my bastard of a stepfather sneaking into my room to do whatever the fuck he wanted affected my insomnia for so damn long. Doesn’t matter that he’s dead and rotting in some unmarked grave, provided by the prison because—as his onlykin—it was understandable that I’d refuse to do anything for his remains but spit on them.

I’m thirty. Almost two decades of that man owning my nightmares and making it so that I could never have a bedmate didn’t quite disappear when I held Genevieve in my arms, but they were quieted. To protect her in a way I couldn’t Ana Lucia and Rafe… I wasn’t the victim. I was the savior.

Until I was the villian.

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