Page 7 of Dance with the Devil

I do, though, and when I don’t back down under the weight of his stare, he nods.

He shoves up his worn leather jacket, revealing a full tattoo sleeve covering his arm. There’s so much to take in. I catch a handful of names written in black script, an immaculate drawing of Mother Mary, interwoven details that connect different elements together… but there, in the middle of it all, is a four-inch-tall red-skinned devil.

There’s my answer. He doesn’t just ink Sinners.

Heisa Sinner.

Shit.

His dark eyes run over me, then drop to his ink-covered arm. He pulls his sleeve down, busying himself with straightening out the seam. I get the feeling that showing me his tattoo was a test, and that I somehow failed.

He clears his throat, ducking his chin a little. A long strand of hair falls forward into his face, and he leaves it there as he searches mine.

“What about you?” he asks. “Any ink?”

My dress is sleeveless. The skirt reaches mid-thigh, and since it’s May, I’m not wearing any tights or hose. Unless I’m hiding a tattoo underneath it, it’s clear that I don’t have anything decorating my skin.

“Not yet,” I tell him, a hint of a dare in my voice.

“Virgin skin,” he rasps. “My favorite. Here.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a metal rectangle. He presses a button, a lid pops open, and I see he has a couple of business cards in there. He plucks one out, snaps the cardholder closed, then offers the card to me. “You decide to mark up that pretty skin you’ve got, butterfly, you come to me. I’ll take care of you.”

Accepting the card, I give him a curious look. “Butterfly?”

“Yeah. Butterfly.”

I think of the napkin with the beautiful butterfly in flight, and how he drew it as I danced. Was he inspired byme?

And if so, why does the slight brushing of our fingers together as he gives me the card have butterflies taking flight in my belly?

I glance down at his card. It has the name of his tattoo parlor embossed in black ink in the center—Sinners & Saints, just like he said—as well as an address. Beneath that, it has a single name: Cross da Silva.

I tap it with my fingernail. “Cross. Is that your name?”

“Sure is.”

“Cool. I’m Genevieve.”

“You got a last name, Genevieve?”

I could lie. If I really believed that this was a chance meeting that I’d forget about by the time I’m climbing the tree later tonight to let myself back into my room… I’d give him one of a hundred different fictitious names I’ve used over the years. In Springfield, it’s not a good idea to use my surname unless I know I’m on friendly turf.

But that’s the thing. I don’t want it to be a chance meeting that means nothing. Something about this Cross… I want to see him again.

And that means I might as well be honest from the jump.

“Libellula. My name is Genevieve Libellula.”

He sucks in a breath, whistling it out through his teeth. “So not a butterfly, then. A Dragonfly.”

Not quite.

A small smile plays on my lips. I show him my naked arm, missing my brother’s mark. When you’re accepted in the Family, you get Damien’s dragonfly inked on your skin. I was born into his family, and he’s made it clear that while I’ll always be a Libellula, I’ll never be a Dragonfly.

“Hey,” I tell him, “I’m a virgin, remember?”

Though if my last name and my older brother don’t scare Cross off, maybe I won’t be for much longer.

THREE

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