Page 113 of Devil's Tulip

He’s laying his claim to me for the entire world to see.

Anybody who recognizes the design—who knows him and his brothers—will instantly associate me with them. With him.I love it.

I move my gaze from the drawing pad to Michael, watching as he works diligently, head bowed in concentration. His furrowed brows make his piercing stand out even more, and the sight is so stupidly beautiful that my fingers twitch.

I can’t stop myself.

I reach out, running a hand over the soft mop of blonde hair at the top of his head, needing to touch him, to connect.

He glances up, and—fuck—those vivid blue eyes gut me.

A thick lump forms in my throat, my heart suddenly pounding for entirely different reasons as three ridiculous, dangerous words bubble up from somewhere deep inside me.I love you.

Oh God, I love him.

I swallow the words back desperately, but he must see something in my expression because his eyes go impossibly soft, and he gives me a smile so warm it threatens to melt the last of my defenses. “Almost done.”

I nod wordlessly and just watch him as he works while inwardly spiraling into full-blown panic.Shit, shit, shit.I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. That wasn’t part of the plan.

What the hell is wrong with me and my stupid, traitorous heart? Why can’t I just be a cool and collected person instead of falling in love with the first dangerous man to pay me any attention?

Because he’s not just dangerous, a small voice whispers.He’s brilliant, talented, protective. He sees you—really sees you.

“There. Now you can never escape from my hold.” There’s a dark satisfaction in his voice that somehow, impossibly, arouses me.

“You’re done already?” I ask in surprise as he switches off the tattoo gun and sets it on the tray.

When I finally look down at my ring finger, I suck in a breath.

The skin is angry red and swollen, but even through that, the tattoo is exquisite.

And then I see it.

A detail that wasn’t in the original design he drew.

At the top of the flowers, right below my middle knuckle, are two italicized letters—M.H.His initials.

“Michael,” I scold, but fuck, I just discovered I’m in love with him and can’t nearly work up the same anger I should feel. In fact, my traitorous heart secretly thrills at having his name permanently etched into my skin.

I’m getting as crazy as he is.

“You’re mine, Gianna. Forever. And now anyone who sees you will know this fact as well,” he says unrepentant, and my cunt clenches with arousal at the quiet confidence in his voice.

Michael leans forward to kiss the freshly tattooed skin. Then he cleans the area with gentle care and wraps a bandage around it.

33

GIANNA

I jolt awake, blinking groggily as I glance around the room. My brain lags, stuck somewhere between sleep and reality. A couple of textbooks are flipped open on the desk in front of me, one page smeared with a suspicious wet patch that screams drool.

Ugh.

I quickly swipe at my mouth and the dampened page.

Under the soft glow of the desk lamp, my wedding ring twinkles, catching my eye. But it’s not just the jewelry that holds my attention—it’s the lines of ink peeking from beneath it. I shift the ring slightly, and my heart gives a stupid little pitter at the sight of Michael’s claim on me.

The tattoo.

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