Page 7 of Daddy Sees Snakes

With that, he pivots and saunters off, leaving me stewing.

The audacity.

As if I’m at his fucking beck and call.

I suck in a deep breath and force myself to unclench my jaw.

Get it together, Iris.

“Sorry about that,” I mutter to my bemused client, Rosa. “Man doesn’t have any boundaries. Let me touch up a few spots and then I think we’ll be good for today.”

Rosa hums sympathetically as I pick up the machine again with hands that tremble slightly. “Sounded like your ex? What an ass. I don’t know how you put up with that bullshit. Hot as he is.”

A harsh laugh punches out of me.

If she only knew.

The swagger and bad boy ink hid a mean, manipulative streak that could turn on a dime.

“He’s my boss too. Makes it extra fun,” I say tightly, biting my tongue against the full shit-talking session I’d love to indulge in. “But I don’t intend to put up with it much longer. Just gotta line up another job first.”

“Mmm, I hear that. You’re talented as hell though. You won’t have any trouble finding a new shop.” Rosa lifts her head to catch my eye, her expression suddenly sly. “You know, a bunch of us dancers could use a good tattoo artist. One who gets ourstyle, does cover-ups and touch-ups, that kinda thing. If you ever want an intro at the club...”

I raise my brows, intrigued in spite of myself.

I've done plenty of ink on strippers and sex workers.

They tend to be great clients—easygoing, fun, with a bold aesthetic and high pain tolerance.

And discreet as hell, which I can certainly appreciate.

“That’s...tempting, actually.” I flash her a considering smile as I finish the final highlight with a flourish. “Might just take you up on it if shit goes sideways here. Which, given that little scene, is a definite possibility.”

We share a knowing look as I wipe down the fresh ink and sit back to survey the piece with a critical eye.

The lotus and lush greenery wrap seamlessly around her ribs and shoulder blade, the jewel tones popping against her bronzed skin.

Not bad at all.

After snapping a few pics for my portfolio, I cover the piece and give Rosa the usual spiel about aftercare.

We head up front to settle the bill, and she leans on the counter with a wink as she hands me her card. “I’m serious, Iris. Satin Dreams could use a girl like you. For ink and...other things. Think about it.”

Her tone is light but the implication unmistakable.

I swallow and nod, slipping the card in my back pocket as we say our goodbyes.

Heading back to clean my station, I feel the first real spark of excitement I’ve had in weeks.

A new opportunity.

A chance to get the fuck out of this toxic hellhole and away from Lyon’s clutches.

It’s almost too good to be true.

But first, I need to deal with the steaming pile of bullshit waiting for me in his office.

Squaring my shoulders, I stalk down the hall and push through the door without knocking.

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