Page 149 of Never Die for a Sinner
“Nothing if you like boring shit.”
Ava smiles and swats my arm. I catch her hand and bring it to my mouth, nipping the pads of her fingers.
I can’t deny I like the way her eyes light up when she laughs. Fuck, every time I look at her, it’s hard to look away. I’ve caught myself staring, and I don’t know if she’s noticed or not, but I feel like a fucking creep.
How could I not stare?
She was handcrafted to perfection. Like she was made for me. Soft waves cascade down her back like rich, molten chocolate. Perfect ass underneath my sheets. Pretty green eyes boring into my soul with a lightness I haven’t seen from her in a long time.
The once timid, broken girl I’d chased in the forest behind this house is learning to stand up for herself. It’s like watching her come alive for the first time since I met her. She smiles more. Laughs more. She meets my gaze.
She’s less of a ghost and more of a deity, and every day I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore this innate desire to make her mine. Forever.
I can’t, of course, but . . . the thought’s there. Fucking festering.
Her fingers trace over the lines of my tattoos, where she lies on her stomach beside me. I don’t mind coming home to this place every night, so long as she’ll be here, ready to take the edge off.
I know, I know. It’s toxic.
She’s replacing the liquor, and the irony’s not lost on me that I’m fucking addicted.
“What does this mean?” she asks softly.
I smirk, looking down at her fingers.
No one’s asked me that question in a long time.
“I got it when I was seventeen. It’s Latin.”
She peeks up at me, her fingers stalling.
“So, what does it mean?”
“It was a dare.”
She fixes me with an amused look.
“It’s something vulgar, isn’t it?”
“It’s supposed to mean ‘go fuck yourself’.”
To my surprise, she grins, shaking her head.
“I should have known. I wonder how many people have thought it was some profound statement.”
“Probably a lot more than I care to admit.”
“I always wanted a tattoo,” she says with a shrug. “But I’m too indecisive.”
“Tattoos don’t have to have meaning. It’s just skin.”
She’s quiet, her brows knitted together in thought.
“I always admired my mother’s tattoo when I was a kid. It wasn’t perfect. Just a heart with a ribbon surrounding it. But it had my name. Ava Lynn . . . I don’t know. It just felt special.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
She stares at me for a moment, her eyes sad.
